


Ink

by ChibiStarr



Category: Disney - All Media Types, The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)
Genre: F/M, Torture, more realistic, people don't so much as die as they're never heard from again, ratings will change as time goes on, slight dubcon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-13 21:59:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10522743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiStarr/pseuds/ChibiStarr
Summary: A meeting after Frollo captured Esmeralda in the Court of Miracles.And later, what if Esmeralda actually accepts Frollo's offer? What if she chooses him over the fire?





	1. Overture

**Author's Note:**

> _"He opened the shaft of the bottomless pit, and from the shaft rose smoke like the smoke of a great furnace, and the sun and the air were darkened with the smoke from the shaft."_ \- Revelation 9:2

What dark and evil streets could be seen now after the chase had ended, the cat using all of his wiles and wits to ensnare his fiery bird, trapping her in his claws as she spread her wings. How lit the streets had been during  his mad pursuit, driven by his wild desires that even he himself did not truly understand but knew where they originated and whipped him into a frenzy, all of his soul and mind bent and honed under a solitary thought just like how he used to throw himself before the altar and pray to God: to find Esmeralda. How he had torn to very foundations of Paris to flush her out, how the very streets seemed to crack beneath him to let Hell through and set the city ablaze.  
  
Now those very same houses squatted fearfully under an ink-black sky, dyed so from the smoke rushing out of their half-ruined forms. The fires that since been put out but they still poisoned the air and sky with their noxious fumes, dark rivers pouring from every crevice of every shell to mix into a thick ocean above which not a single shard of light could penetrate. Even in the daytime it had seemed as dark as twilight with all the burning brilliance of the sun shrouded over, how could the delicate, luminous moon stand a chance against Frollo's destruction?

The only sound under the shadow of Notre Dame were the prisoners shuffling about in their cages, like uneasy cattle being forced into pens while wolves prowled the field, hungry for their blood. Esmeralda could only see them dimly through the smoke and darkness, and even then only because there were torches burning around their cages. They seemed like a phantasm to her watering eyes, appearing only for a heartbeat before smoke stole them away from her sight, leaving her to wonder if there were truly people beyond her or if the shifting shadows of the flames played tricks on her mind. She knew there had to be but the square was so empty and silent and cold, life sucked away by the rage of Frollo.

Her eyes darted around, taking in her guards, the bars of her cage, and finally into the deep blackness where she knew the cathedral of Notre Dame was. She could not see a single stone of it but she knew it was there, she could feel its presence towering over them all like a great beast, as beautiful and dominating as it was merciless. Its stone eyes would watch them all being burned alive tomorrow morning and nothing at all would be done about it. A cruel, horrid specter of fate and judgement! Only a few days ago she had crouched in the depths of Notre Dame, among the marbled bowels and stone ribs and prayed, the only time in her life that she had prayed. She had begged God with everything in her to help her people, never in her life, what was left of it anyway, would she ever manage to make such a heartfelt prayer ever again and this was God's answer. He threw them down from His grace, let them be caught by hateful men who would slaughter them all just for who they were and trapped them in cages like animals. Gypsies did not do well inside stone walls, but they were even worse inside cages.  
  
She had thrown herself at the feet of God, and God had tossed her back to the wolves.  
  
Somewhere up there, somewhere far up in the unreachable darkness and empty air, was Quasimodo. Esmeralda remembered hearing Frollo giving the order to take him to the bell tower and to make sure he didn't leave, but how could they managed to keep him there? He was the strongest man she had ever seen and could fly over the roofs and buttresses as easily as any bird despite his lack of wings. Many times she thought to call to him, but each time her words died long before they left her throat. He was so high up there in his solitary room, both his loft and prison, that she doubted he could have ever heard her. All she would get would be a slap from her guards.  
  
She shivered, the cold stones of the ground leeching into her bones. Her dress was light and airy, meant to fly through the air as she danced, not for any sort of warmth or protection. She had slept in it enough times but that never got her used to the cold of Paris. Curling up a little, she rested her head on her knees and tried to keep warm with it, all the while trying to think of some way to get out. Her problem lay almost entirely with the guards, but from what she managed to see of the lock on her cage it was much bigger and more complex than the usual simple clasps that could be picked within a second. And there was a bar on top of it all for added protection. Even with her skills, knowing lockpicking and escaping as easily as breathing, for that was the life of a gypsy, Esmeralda doubted her abilities.  
  
Abruptly she heard footsteps and jerked her head up to see her guards retreating, the shadows swallowing them whole as they traversed the darkness, going to the other cages from the sounds of it. She frowned at them. Why would they suddenly go and leave her alone? Especially when she was the one Frollo had prized most of all. It made no sense.  
  
Esmeralda only saw him by the flicker of movement outside of her bars. He had made no sound when he walked and his robes had hidden him perfectly until he was right there in front of her. He had to be a demon of the night, no man could ever be so invisible to all the senses without supernatural powers.  
  
Frollo's gaze was dark, pitiless, and utterly engrossing as he stared at her, drinking in her sight. She desperately wanted to cover herself, to run away as a rabbit does at the sight of a hungry snake, but there was nowhere to go. She was trapped and the idea of that, the idea of being in a cage like an animal while this man leered at her enraged her and gave her the strength to leap to her feet. "Get out of here!" she snarled, throwing herself at the bars and thrusting her arm through it to grab him, but her fingers only felt the air where he had been a moment before. He had jumped back, far more nimble than she would have ever expected from an old man, and all that was left of him was the ripple of air made by the folds of his clothes brushing in the night.  
  
His chuckle slithered into her ears, dark and heavy as the smoke it came from. "Such fire, witch," he said softly, soft enough for her ears alone. "Perhaps I should not commit you to the flames tomorrow after all. Who knows if they would even affect you? Maybe instead I should douse your fire in the waters of the Seine. You would make a spectacular view all the same, being thrown from the bridge in chains." He came closer, just barely out of reach, hardly even blinking. How did he stand the smoke? How could he breathe it without coughing, pierce through it without his eyes becoming red?  
  
The dancer faltered, offput at how casually Frollo described how he would kill her. The words fell from his mouth so easily, yet he caressed the words as he spoke them, his eyes dark with promises unspoken, driving his stare into her eyes until she could not hold his gaze anymore. He was stone and she was flesh, forced to bend to his desires or else be crushed under them. "You're disgusting," she said, defiant of him more from spite and the idea that she had to keep fighting him, had to bite and claw her way to the very end, even on the crevices of Hell.  
  
"Am I?" Frollo whispered, placing the tips of his fingers together. His rings glittered in the firelight. "I, who am simply tormented by a witch such as yourself? Where were you when I was burning Paris and rooting out all of your compatriots? You knew very well that I was looking for you, and you still hid while so-called 'innocent' people lost their homes and lives because of it."  
  
Her hands gripped the metal tightly, her body tensing as she listened to his words. "You dare--" she sputtered, raising her head to glare at him. "You dare try to justify what you have done to my people? You dare to try and make me out to be the villain, when your cruelty and madness has killed more than I ever will?"  
  
"Your very existence is a sin," Frollo replied to her, as simply as he would explain to anyone about the concept of God. "Not only a gypsy, a born sinner, but a witch who has bedeviled not only myself, but my former captain and my Quasimodo. You have them wrapped so tightly in your magic that they would do anything for you, the very thought of you in danger sent them rushing to your court like dogs to their master. Why, the poor souls don't even have a single idea to why they act such a way." His eyes flashed and he stepped closer. "But you will not have me, witch," he spat the word out at her. "You will be caught in _my_ yoke, not the other way around."  
  
He was closer now, and she dared to send out her hand again to strike him, but it seemed like she barely moved before his hand caught her wrist out of the air and he pushed back, slamming her arm against the cage. Esmeralda gave a cry as her shoulder flared in pain,  her body forced to bend to the angle or else it would be dislocated, and Frollo's fingers gripped her so tightly she thought her bones might crack. He was more harsh, more unyielding than any stocks or cuffs. She was left panting and shaking, his surprise retaliation upon her frightening her more than she would ever admit, not to herself or Frollo or God.  
  
His skin was hot, burning against her own. He had to be a demon, wreathed in shadows and flame with flimsy skin and bones to hold his human disguise together. What other explanation was there? No man could be so hot on a night like this, not so quick and strong through his frail appearance. He had sucked all the flames into himself and now here he stood before her. His very presence was overwhelming, pressing over Esmeralda like the very cathedral and it seemed suddenly like there was no air to breathe at all.  
  
"Just like I said, Esmeralda," Frollo whispered to her, uttering her name for the very first time, "you will bend to me."  
  
She wanted to scream at him, to yell and thrash and claw his eyes out but the pain held her there. She was sure she could find a way to move without injuring herself, but first she needed the pain to fade so she could think first. She had to--  
  
There were lips on her hand. Soft, gentle, and sending her skin into  thousand different sensations that all crawled down her arm to her fingertips. Her eyes snapped open and she tried to jerk away with all of her might, but her hand would not budge. Frollo ignored her completely, his eyes closing as he kissed down her arm, as if he was tasting a wine.  
  
Warmth flooded her veins, crawling along her spine and in desperation she forced her other arm through the bars and grabbed at him, her fingers grabbing his collar and neck before he grabbed her other wrist. Then, finally, he turned to look at her again. His gaze was dark and filled with an inner desire that made her shrink away from him. "Do give me some credit, my dear," he said, holding her arms against the bars as he moved closer, "you aren't half as surprising as you think you are."  
  
His robes were darker than night, his skin pale and ghostly and his eyes glared at him from the dark circles that imprisoned them. He stood before her, only some inches separating them that she tried to widen as much as possible. She knew that look, she had seen it far too many times when she danced in front of men. She wanted to threaten him, to snarl and make him back away, but what could she threaten him with? He was the one with the soldiers and weapons. "I'll scream," she hissed at him.  
  
He smiled, the kind of smug smile that barely curls the lips. "Go ahead," he told her, leaning closer. "There is no one to hear you. No one to help you." His thumbs stroked the skin of her wrists, his breathing heavy.  "Tomorrow I will give you a choice. Death, or me."  
  
It felt like all the blood had been sucked from her body, leaving her shaking in his grasp. "What?" she whispered. Against herself, she came closer, as if she had misheard him.  
  
"You know what I said," he said, inhaling deeply. Could he still smell her through the smoke? "Me, or your death." He kissed her hair. "Think wisely, gypsy, is eternal suffering and damnation truly so preferable?" Boldly, he released one of her wrists and grazed his fingers down her arm, slipping through the bars to caress the skin of her neck.  
  
She did not resist. She couldn't think clearly, her whole mind having to comprehend what Frollo was offering her. He meant--he meant--she shivered all over, his fingers tracing down her neck and it felt as if her blood had suddenly returned, leaping to meet his fingertips as he explored.  
  
Defiance blazed in her, some part of herself crawling out of its depths to hate and spite Frollo just _because_ and she balled her hand up in a fist. She moved, aiming for his face but he was gone yet again, leaping back before her blow could connect. With how intently Frollo watched her, it was easy to see the change take place.  
  
And still, he chuckled. "Let's see if you still think the same when you stand in the flames tomorrow, witch," he said as he retreated. "Take care not to let your feet burn too much. I still need you to dance for me."


	2. Deliverance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aside from the obvious change in the end, I made a few minor tweaks to the story and setting and characters to fit in with a more realistic depiction of when HoND takes place, the most obvious of course being the peasants.
> 
> _"He drew me up from the pit of destruction, out of the miry bog, and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure."_ \- Psalm 40:2

The morning had dawned with an ominous red sky, choking black clouds still crawling across its length like a great heard stamping their airy hooves in a sea of blood. A tapestry of doom woven by the Moirai, the most hopeless and vengeful sky that Esmeralda had ever seen in her life. People had started to gather and stare at them all from the shadows of their houses, visible only when they moved, frail grass stalks bending to their own unseen winds. Esmeralda looked among their faces for any sign of pity, anything that would tell her they were here to help, but she only saw anger and fear.  
  
How could they all do this? Could they really just sit there and watch them all die and not do _anything?_  
  
She sensed Frollo coming long before she saw him. The sound of hooves clacking on the stone was the first sound she heard, then a ripple passed among the crowd that stirred them into life, the air buzzing with their whispers and the swish of their clothes. The air pressed on her as if it had become water and somehow the shadows seemed even darker, more substantial somehow. She shrank away from them, overcome by the insane feeling that if they touched her then she would feel fingers across her skin.  
  
The clopping of hooves became louder and then she could see him and the people parting around him hurriedly, throwing themselves away as if he would burn them. Even in his most consuming of rages, the coldest of his disdain, the thickest of his confusion, Frollo had the most perfect horsemanship Esmeralda had ever seen. He sat upon his Friesian like a king and it responded to signals and touches she could barely ever discern, they were so complete that it was more like he spoke to the animal with his mind. How could this not be seen as witchcraft by such a dumb and foolish population as these people?  
  
Frollo's swaying in the saddle was perfect and the horse nearly glided across the space that separated them, the leaders of a procession of guards who were infinitely more clumsy and awkward on their own mounts, their armor rattling and half of them looked like they would fall off at any moment compared to Frollo. Esmeralda could not take her eyes from him and even with the distance between them she could still feel his scorching gaze across her flesh, gripping her in a restraint that existed without touch. Her heart galloped in her chest, her ribs which before had seemed so protecting before were like a cage now, a cage made of her very own body.  
  
Each growing step made her realize how huge his horse truly was, how large they both seemed and they stole the air with their very presence. No matter how many times she inhaled it didn't seem like it was enough, her head was light and spinning and they pressed down on her, she felt as much in their shadow as she did of Notre Dame. Her knees trembled and she would have probably fallen if her knees hadn't been locked and her hands gripping her cage with an intensity born of fear. She looked up defiantly as they stopped in front of her, seeing them framed by the sky above that seemed too perfect to be natural for them.  
  
At first all Frollo did was stare at her. His dark eyes were unreadable, unchanging, and it was more like an animalistic instinct that whispered to her what he was feeling than what the judge actually gave away. Anger and desire that chased each other, all wrapped up and caught in each other so it was impossible to separate one from the other entirely. Smugness that oozed from him in every movement, but his face so frozen and cold...So cold. He was close enough for her to nearly reach out and touch but he was as indifferent as a hermit on a remote mountaintop.  
  
Frollo and his horse could have been a statue carved from ebony, marble, and amethyst. Neither of them moved.  
  
"Take her."  
  
She jumped when he suddenly spoke. Everyone did, it seemed. Snapping into action, her guards quickly unlocked the door and then they were around her, grabbing her wrists and yanking her away. Her fingers ached horribly from how hard they had been holding the cage and their hold burned harshly against her wrists. Esmeralda gritted her teeth at how hard they tugged her, but she did not protest and forced her feet to move with them.  
  
"All of them," came the second, imperious command.  
  
There was commotion everywhere, the people around raising their voices in a shout that she could not understand. She couldn't understand anything, her blood was roaring in her ears, roaring like the clanking of armor and the constant buzzing voices around her. The one thing she could hear clearly was Frollo's voice, like cold water against heated skin. It always pulled her back to the present with the shock of hearing it.  
  
Soldiers were pulling her, dragging her along with them, closer to the front of Notre Dame. A platform had been erected there earlier, with a single pole serving as its decoration. Her heart tripped and froze at the sight of it all, her mind just now comprehending the full meaning even though she had spent the whole last night knowing what was to come.  
  
Then, like a slap to her face, came Phoebus's voice rising above the din. Frollo's voice was jolting as the cold, but Phoebus roared like a clap of thunder. "What is wrong with all of you?! He burned your houses and ransacked your city! Can't you see what he's doing is _wrong!_ He--"  
  
" _Witch!_ " Came an insane shriek that Esmeralda had to turn around and see. The others were behind her in their own twisted procession, but Phoebus was the only one resisting his captors. Then from somewhere in the crowd came a rock that hit Phoebus right in the gut, driving the breath out of him and his knees buckled. All around them the crowd cheered.  
  
It felt like her heart had been torn instead. Esmeralda couldn't hold back the small scream in her throat at the sight of it all, and just like wolves smelling blood, their attention turned to her.  
  
_"Gypsy witch!"_  
  
_"Burn her!"_  
  
_"There she is!"_  
  
Another rock came sailing by, passing so close to her that she heard it whooshing in the air as it passed. Their screaming, frothing rage was stirring into a frenzy, as mindless as howling dogs. Other things were being picked up, fruits and sticks and anything they could get their hands on to hit and attack the gypsies with.  
  
" _Enough!_ "  
  
Frollo's voice rose above it all like a god and at all once there was silence. An incredible, single breath of shocked silence before his soldiers snapped into action, those not holding prisoners pushing the crowds back, screaming threats and waving their spears around to herd them into a more acceptable position, forcing them to leave the prisoners with a wide berth.  
  
Esmeralda felt her eyes burning, but she refused to cry. How could she have ever expected these people to help? These were the very same heartless bastards that had tied a poor hunchbacked man to a wheel and thrown fruit at him, all to make fun of his ugliness. And they had _laughed_ at his suffering cries!  
  
_God damn them. God damn every single one of their souls to the deepest pits of Hell._  
  
If she was destined for Hell, then Esmeralda would laugh while she was there. She knew all of them were destined to end up there with her, and how she would be the one to laugh at their pain in the end.  
  
She tried to be brave and defiant and strong, but her knees were shaking so badly that she could barely walk. Not even she understood how she was managing to do it, it was as mechanical as breathing at this point. Even if the guards weren't holding her she had no idea if she could even pluck up the strength and courage to run. Where would she go? Right into the waiting jaws of the peasants who would enjoy tearing her apart with their bare hands? The images of Phoebus played over and over in her head, how easily he fell and how they cheered at it. He was the captain of the guard, one of the most respected men in the city, and how quickly they turned on him! What hope did she, a gypsy, have?  
  
Oh God she hoped Phoebus wasn't badly hurt. He had only been shot a day ago and he needed to recover. Wrestling with his guards couldn't possibly be easy with his injury and stupid, ridiculously noble Phoebus was doing it anyway because it felt _right_. At the very least one of them would go to heaven. That was a small spark of happiness that glowed in her. She could bear Hell easier not seeing Phoebus there and knowing that his immortal soul would be taken to God's kingdom.  
  
The stairs leading up to the platform banged against her ankles and she screamed again, the pain momentarily crippling her as her legs refused to walk. She wobbled and her guards stopped her from falling, but she could hear their sneers and their annoyance with her. Angrily, she tried to fight her way past it, to show that she would walk proudly to her execution with her head held high and uncaring because she was better than all of them. But she had already been too slow and her guards hauled her up the steps, her feet barely finding purchase and her shoulders screaming as her arms pulled against them.  
  
For a moment, she could breathe. There were no longer people swarming around her and the air was clear and she took a deep breath. Instantly she coughed on the smoke and turned her head to cough into her hand. From the corner of her vision she could see the whole length of the courtyard and the sheer amount of people that swelled inside of it made her blood freeze. Fear unlike anything she had ever known pounded in her veins and once again deafness fell upon her, all other sounds drowned out by her terrified blood screaming in her ears.  
  
They dragged her to the pole. They had to drag her because her legs refused to work altogether. She saw a few things roll by her feet, a much smaller rock and an apple so rotten that it didn't so much roll as flip its way over. One of the guards kicked it back into the crowd before they pressed her against the pole and began to tie her to it, the ropes biting into her skin.  
  
She couldn't stand, her legs felt like water and could not hold her up, all her weight pressed against the ropes until the pain became too great and she forced her legs to move until they finally began to hold her weight again. Pinpricks at her feet made her look down and only then she noticed that other guards were swarming around, throwing bundles of hay beneath her. To _burn_ her. She had seen the displays before.  
  
Her breath screamed in her ears, tearing out of her throat in ragged, panicked gasps. Her eyes darted around, looking for any sort of help, and the sea of angry, jeering faces being held back by the guards made her turn away from the earth and up to the heavens. Those dark, opaque, heavens.  
  
Notre Dame towered over it all. Two pillars of harsh, jutting stone presiding over the gathering like distant judges. Their firm edges were at once both terrifying and somehow comforting, the safety and solidity of the cathedral apparent in every stone, yet hard, unfeeling stone did not move the slightest when souls were in danger. The eyes of Notre Dame watched, but did not care.  
  
Esmeralda looked up to the bell tower. She could not see much through the haze of smoke and the distance, but she thought it looked empty. Where was Quasimodo? What had happened to him? A wild, desperate part of her wanted to scream for him to save her like he did when he carried her from the church, but she knew it was hopeless. He wouldn't hear her. And he could not fight through the crowds around her anyway.  
  
Silence descended upon the square, as if Death's shadow had passed over. Esmeralda had no idea how much noise she had been blocking out until it was all gone and the utter lack of it was now what was uncomfortable. Instinctively she looked back down and there he was at the top of the steps, his robes blacker than night and his face still set in its cold scowl. He was so pale and haunting, his eyes burning out at her from the dark circles around them.  
  
Seeing that he had her attention, he began to walk to her. His robes rippled around him with each liquid movement and the clunk of his shoes against the wood seemed as loud as a cannon in the quiet. The air coiled around him and made his movements seem strange, as if he was stalking upon something like a predator rather than walking. He came closer, and finally she saw a smile start to emerge on his face.  
  
"Gypsy."  
  
His lips moved, and his whisper was so soft that her ears strained to hear it. Immediately the crowd began to whisper and grumble, and she heard from somewhere a man shouting at him to speak up. Frollo ignored the comments.  
  
"What do you want?" she tried to growl in a final attempt to be careless and defiant. Her voice broke and her snarl refused to stay in place no matter how hard she tried.  
"Do you remember what I said last night, gypsy?"  
  
She balled up her hands. "Yes, and you can go to Hell."  
  
He chuckled, stroking his chin a little as he leaned in closer to her. "How amusing. Do you tell me that because you yourself fear for your soul, knowing that is where you shall go? Redemption is not too late for anyone, you know." His eyes shifted, flickering to the assembled crowd that was grown more irritated by the moment. "Tell me, did you see them?"  
  
She blinked at him, her mind stumbling in the dark, groping for a meaning to his questions. "I--Of course I did. Do you think I'm stupid on top of everything else?"  
  
"Do you think they would see it that way, Esmeralda?"  
  
The use of her name stopped her. "What?"  
  
"Redemption, gypsy, redemption. Do you think they want to see you redeemed? Do you think they would like it if you fell before me and begged God to purify you and forgive you of all sins?" He looked back at her. "What do you think they came here for, gypsy? Did they come to watch a woman's soul be saved, or did they come to watch a witch burn so they could scream and humiliate her and feel righteous about themselves?"  
  
An uncomfortable truth flooded her and made her throat close. Her mouth had no answers to give him. She could not speak and admit he was right, especially not to him.  
But, for all her silence, he seemed to know. "Hear them yelling now? They want me to get on with it, to burn you for the crime they believe you are rightly guilty of committing. They are not here to help you, Esmeralda. They are not your allies. Remember that." He stepped away.  
  
The first beat of the drums made her jump. She had not seen them at all earlier but of course there would be drummers here for the mass execution to take place. Frollo did not take his eyes off her and lifted his right hand, which she realized had a rolled-up parchment grasped in it. The light of the torches danced across his rings as he moved with a practiced, ceremonial air and unrolled the parchment.  
  
His voice boomed out, suddenly so loud and commanding that it seemed impossible that such a frail looking body could produce it. _"The gypsy, Esmeralda, has been accused of witchcraft_ , _"_ he read to the cheers of the people. _"The sentence: death!"_  
  
Whatever he said next was lost in the roar of the crowd that mirrored the roar in her brain. She tugged at the ropes vainly and felt more straw being thrown under her. It was nearly up to her knees at this point, digging through her dress and scraping at her skin; no matter how much she squirmed and wiggled it still hurt, she couldn't escape from the pinpricks. But that would be nothing compared to what would happen when the straw would be lit. She had seen witch burnings before--how they screamed, God...  
  
Light invaded her eyes, and she looked up, trembling, into the face of Frollo just a foot away from hers. He carried the torch with him, just like how she saw at the miller's. The light danced across his face and the shadows cast by its planes and the wrinkles decorating them danced with it. It gave him a twisted, ethereal appearance that shifted and morphed wickedly under the display, like his face would melt away at any second and reveal the demon beneath.  
  
"The time has come, gypsy," he said to her, the smooth tones of his voice rolling out in that baritone that made her bones tingle. "You stand upon the brink of the abyss. Yet even now it is not too late." He was leaning closer to her, smiling and bringing his torch closer at the same time, his growing more earnest. "I can save you from the flames of this world, and the _next._ " There was a heartbeat, a solitary breath of a pause where they both tottered on the edge of an abyss that had no bottom. "Choose me, or the fire." He brought the torch closer.  
  
The heat was scorching her face, everything seemed too bright, too hot and she tried to turn away from the flames but the ropes barely let her move. Her heart still thundered, her blood racing yet she couldn't explain how she was still shivering as if she was cold. She knew what he meant by his words, and what choosing him would mean. She knew and yet--yet to stand here in flames, in the heat and everyone would laugh and _cheer_ all because she was _hated._ But Jesus bore such suffering, did he not?  
  
She could smell burning hair--hers! She jerked away, gasping for breath. "I--" _Yell! Scream! Be defiant!_ The words would not come. She was split between two halves of herself, titans facing each other on a battlefield that existed only within her mind, as different as any two sides could be. "I--"  
  
"Speak quickly, Esmeralda," Frollo told her, unrelenting. The way he said her name, rolled her syllables so beautifully from his cultured accent... "It comes down to this. No more running, no more sorcery. Choose."  
  
He would burn her. She knew that in the very depths of her soul. His attraction, whatever form it might be, would not prevent that. She watched him barricade an innocent family inside their home and set it ablaze for no reason, he would absolutely let her burn alive and enjoy it. Either way he would win.  
  
She trembled, fear making her head spin, tears filling her eyes. Frollo would win no matter what, but he could win with her alive or her dead. And one of them, just one, kept her alive and out of the flames of Hell for a little while longer.  
  
The crowd was screaming, frenzied, a writhing mass of righteous fury.  
  
Heat still burned her, so close it felt like her skin was about to peel off. It hurt so much, so much.  
  
She was no Jesus.  
  
"I--" she faltered, a bird flapping unsteady wings. "You," she said to her feet.  
  
The surprise from him was palpable. Even the flames seemed to waver and become unsure of themselves. "What?" she heard the single, silent whisper of shock. Then a louder, vicious growl. "Say it again."  
  
Now it was her turn to be surprised. "What?" she blurted out in an exact echo of Frollo. The bottom dropped from her stomach, sweat pouring from her skin. Did he not accept it? Was he dangling freedom in front of her just to snatch it away? "But I said it!"  
  
"Say it _again!_ " Frollo snarled, thrusting the torch inches from her face and bearing over her, his hellish expression boring into her.  
  
The heat and flames were too much, she cried out and tried to run from them. "You, you, you! I choose you!" She wanted to scream the words out but her throat was too choked with fear to strangle out more than a whisper.  
  
All at once it was gone and the blessed colder air kissed her face. _"The gypsy, Esmeralda, had recanted!"_ she heard Frollo's voice shouting, and the roar of the crowd. Yelling, booing, disappointed that she was not currently screaming from the flames at that very moment. _"She will be brought to confess for her sins, and may God forgive her for them!"_  
  
The citizens went _insane,_ screaming and throwing more things and a few even tried to force their way past the guards until one of them was stabbed. Frollo was about to have a full riot on his hands. But the judge didn't seem to care, he unsheathed a dagger that he carried from his belt and cut her ropes in a few short, sharp strokes. His robes seemed to nearly engulf her, hiding her from the accusing, malicious stares of the peasants. If only briefly.  
  
"Come quickly," his hand seized her wrist, his skin still burning compared to hers. But this time he gripped her with a tightness that seemed born of desperation and urgency. Oh, he didn't care that the crowd was about to throw a revolt, but he was certainly aware of it. He dragged her to the steps, his feet taking enormous strides and forcing her to nearly run to keep up. "Quickly, quickly!" he hissed at her, passing her over to two guards who caught her as she stumbled down the steps. "Take her to the Palace of Justice immediately. You may kill anyone who tries to stop you. You--" he pointed at some other soldiers. "Bring me another one of the prisoners, now, dammit!"  
  
There was a torrent of noise around her, she couldn't tear her eyes away from the hatred that glared at her from hundreds of pairs of eyes. It was shocking and utterly crushing to see. Just some days ago she had danced for these same people in the Festival and they had loved her, adored her, called her the finest girl in France and praised her dancing. And now--now it was all gone, just like that under the one simple accusation: witch.  
  
"This way," a soldier growled into her ear and he hurried her away, her trembling legs stumbling awkwardly after him like a child. It was hard for even her to imagine that these very same legs were capable of dances and acrobats that had even landed her the title of witch in the first place.  
  
She was surrounded by men, soldiers, all of them except her escort forming a ring around her that lashed out at anyone who managed to break away from the blockade to try and rush at her. They herded her and she saw Frollo's carriage of wood and iron at the other corner of the courtyard. She wondered who had brought it.  
  
_"Here!"_ Frollo shouted above the mass, somehow still able to make himself heard. _"Another witch! And a king of the gypsies, too!"_  
  
The words sent a dagger into her heart, as did the shrieking that threatened to split her ears open. She whirled, not wanting to look but at the same time needing to, and met the eyes of Clopin. His mask was gone and even as he was being tied to the pole his gaze was on her.  
  
The shock and betrayal on his face was too much for her. She turned away away, tears burning in her face and sick to her stomach.  
  
Of course, freedom for her didn't mean Frollo would let everyone else off so easily. He probably didn't even offer them the choice.  
  
And Phoebus... No, she was absolutely not going to look for Phoebus. That was the last time she was going to look back or she would actually go insane.  
  
Tears made her vision wobble and ran tracks down her face, stinging her sensitive skin before the air cooled it back down. "Inside," she heard one of the men say as he opened the door to the carriage. She nodded dumbly, mutely, and forced her limbs to cooperate and properly climb into the box. The prison, it all but felt like.  
  
As soon as the door shut she let herself collapse, though. A small part of her noted that Frollo's seats were made of some sort of fancy fabric that she had never felt before, but the most of her finally broke down and _sobbed_. Sobbed in total, overwhelming terror, anger, grief, and tying them all together: _relief._ It made her hate herself to feel it, but at the same time she was still _alive._  
  
The carriage shuddered and swayed as someone whipped up the horses and set them off as a fast trot, no doubt to get as far away from the volatile crowd as possible. She didn't care, she could finally lay down and cry until there was nothing left inside of her anymore.


	3. Obedience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _“If you love me, you will keep my commandments."_ \- John 14:15

Hours had passed after that, some of the longest hours he could ever remember experiencing, and the only way he was able to tell the passage of time was how the light changed around him and the color of the sky. The journey of the sun across the heavens warped the city under it; shadows lengthened in some places and disappeared entirely in others, and the strange red color that painted the sky that morning had darkened into gray. At midmorning a wind had sprung up and the smoke had fled to the skies and still hovered over the city like a grim specter of death, but without it rampaging in the streets and choking people they seemed to forget all about it.  
  
Long after that, when the day's gruesome work was done, it seemed like a watery blue sky wished to break through the gray curtain of smoke and ash and dust. Frollo gazed at it as he made his way down the platform at last, his legs as heavy as wood underneath him. All of that standing and shouting and the rest of the excitement of the day had deeply exhausted him like he had never felt before. The fact that he had not slept yet did not help either.  
  
"Sir!" one of the guards saluted him, his voice too loud and ringing in the minister's ears.  
  
Frollo winced and waved him away, reaching up with his other hand to rub his eyes. "Go back to the Palace of Justice," he ordered. "Make sure the gypsy girl does not escape again."  
  
Confusion met his commands. "Sir?" the guard repeated uneasily.  
  
He snapped his head up and the guards shrank back from his glare. "I said go!" he snapped, his voice cracking them into action like a whip. "Not—" he interrupted among the flurry of movement, "—you two. You stay with me."  
  
The two of them exchanged equally puzzled looks and Frollo grit his teeth. How in the world was he supposed to replace Captain Phoebus so soon? He would rather have a score of Phoebus's (albeit loyal ones) than the whole of his city guard. Phoebus had at least been competent. He swept past them in a swirl of robes and listening to their clanking as they tried to keep up with his long strides across the now-empty courtyard to the well. A group of four women were standing around it and gossiping, but when they saw him approaching with his scowl they scattered like sparrows before a raven. They left the water bucket behind, though, and when Frollo peered in he saw that there was still an inch or so of water left at the bottom.  
  
Thankfully the two guards he picked to follow him weren't particularly talkative. He wasn't sure how much idle chatter he could take right now. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and dipped it into the water and began to gently clean his face with it. A small sigh of satisfaction escaped him as the cool water came in contact with his hot skin and he could see black smudges appearing on the cloth. Smoke, no doubt. It was on his hands as well and his robes reeked of it, who knew how long it would take to get them to smell fine again. He had to dip his handkerchief in again and again, wringing it out each time and washing his face again, along with his neck and hands until finally the water ran more or less clear. He needed a proper wash but for now it would do.  
  
"Where is my horse?" he asked without turning around.  
  
"Tied off, sir," one of his soldiers answered.  
  
"Bring him here."  
  
He heard clanking footsteps scurrying away, and leaned against the well, waiting for the steps to come back with hooves in tow. He wondered what time it was. The growling of his stomach gnawing away in his gut told him that he had missed lunch, but it was far past afternoon. Or was it? He tried to remember when he heard the noon bells, then a cold jolt ran through him as he realized that he had not heard the bells at all that day. He stood up straight, snapping up and turning as the guard appeared with his horse. With little ceremony he grabbed the saddle and hoisted himself into it, cursing himself softly for his mistake. No, he couldn't return to the Palace, not just yet.  
  
Without a single word to his guards he turned and trotted down the streets, not to the Palace but the stores and markets. He heard a confused muttering behind him and ignored it. He didn't even have his basket with him, he would have to buy a new one.  
  
Frollo felt the inquisitive and slightly fearful stares all around him, but he rode with his head held high and pretended they were all as insubstantial as air. His guards had no questions for him as he bought a wicker basket from a merchant and went to the baker and the butcher, the wine shop and the fruit stand, inspecting all of their items with a critical eye. A loaf of fresh bread went into the basket, along with a side of salted beef, a hunk of cheese, a square of butter, two meat pies, plums and apples, a tiny, precious jar of honey, and finally a bottle of fine Bordeaux, all of it covered with a simple, clean white cloth.  
  
He rode back to the cathedral hastily, squinting his eyes and trying to see if he could spot Quasimodo from the ground. No luck, the sky made everything blurred and dark. How had they actually restrained the hunchback so he couldn't leave the bell tower? He supposed he would find out soon enough.  
  
"Stay here," he said as he dismounted.  
  
"Yes sir," he heard the affirmative behind him. Not without grumbling, and on any other day he would have snapped at them for it but now he was simply too tired and out of patience.  
  
He took off his hat as he passed under the shadow of the entrance of Notre Dame. As always, the beauty and grandeur of the magnificent cathedral made him stop for just a moment, overwhelmed by the size and sight before him. How man could have built such a majestic structure could only have been achieved with the help of God, he was sure of it. He reached out and dipped his fingers into the holy water of the stoup, then crossed himself. Even that small drop of cold on his forehead was a relief, bringing his senses back into sharpness once more.  
  
There were eyes watching him. As if sensing he had been caught, the archdeacon appeared from between the shadows of two pillars, his face a most peculiar mix of a scowl and grief. "Frollo—" he began.   
  
"If only you were aware of how much patience I don't have for one of your lectures today, archdeacon," Frollo cut him off, his voice as pleasant as ever but his eyes taking on a flinty edge as they landed on the priest.  
  
The archdeacon paused, if only for a second. "What in the world are you doing with that gypsy, Frollo? Putting her on the stake and then taking her off at the last moment? What do you mean she has 'recanted?'"  
  
Frollo sighed through his nose, trying to control his breathing. "Recant means exactly what it has always meant, archdeacon. And I did not come here to talk about that. Where is Quasimodo?"  
  
"I haven't seen him since your soldiers dragged him in here. And that is another thing—"  
  
His eye twitched, shock flooding his body at the words, only to give way to anger an instant later. _"What?"_ he hissed over the archdeacon's words, fury blazing in his eyes. "He is a soul taking refuge under your roof and you did not even check on him?! What if he has fallen off the tower or starved? His blood would be on your hands!" He pushed past the archdeacon, his robes rippling as he started taking the stairs two at a time.  
  
"Why, Frollo," the archdeacon's voice followed him up the stairway, the owner traveling at a more sedate pace. "I had no idea you cared so much."  
  
For one fleeting moment, the desire to turn back and throw the archdeacon down the stairs nearly overwhelmed him. Frollo tried to quash his anger, but such a bubbling, molten thing could not be suppressed by will alone and it burst out of his throat to become his voice: "It is not about me caring, it is about you doing your _job!"_ He reached the top of the stairs and slammed the door behind him with a bang that had to echo through the whole cathedral and locked it behind him. There, blessed silence, for now. He leaned against the door for a moment and rubbed his eyes once more, then pushed himself away and started up the rest of the steps.  
  
At the very least he was keeping in shape by going up and down these steps all the time, he mused to himself as he climbed and climbed in a tight circle that would have made him dizzy if he wasn't so used to it by now. The space was small and silent but he liked it, the quiet was peaceful and the corridor safe, and it let him think as he walked. Even with a moment of spare time, though, his thoughts invariably turned to Esmeralda.  
  
He remembered how she looked up at him, so terrified and yet so willingly at the same time, throwing herself at his feet for his mercy. She chose him, him! His hand tightened on the basket, his heart thumping in his chest and his steps faster. She chose him! She was all his now, a little bird that might fly away at any moment but ah, he knew how to catch birds and keep them!  
  
A small smile was making itself know across his face, and even his fatigue could not stop his steps from nearly flying up the stairs. She was in the Palace right at this moment, what was she doing? He knew she had gone through a very suffering ordeal but now her trials had ended and she was safe again. Was she sleeping, perhaps, recovering her spirit, or was she just sitting in her room, frightened and alone? But he knew Esmeralda, whatever fright she had would not last very long. She was simply not the type of person to dwell on things and let the past haunt her.  
  
His staff had better take care of her, she was under his protection now. A scowl passed his face at the thought, his robes flaring out as his steps increased. No, they would no what to do, they had to. They would find a room for her and feed her, find her everything she needed, but it was those guards that made his fists clench. If he came back and found that she had escaped _again_ he would flay them all alive in the dungeons. He would make them eat hot coals and--  
  
Well, maybe he would do that afterwards. He would have to catch her again after all and he needed men for that.  
  
He shook his head, rubbing his temples and slowing his steps. She would not escape, he assured himself of that. No one had ever escaped from the Palace of Justice before.  
He was getting close to the top, now. He could smell the change in the air. On normal days it was cleaner and more pure from being so high off the ground, yet had a certain thin quality about it, like watered-down wine. Now, though, he could smell the smoke more thickly up here.  
  
Finally, his eyes caught sight of the top of the stairs and he stepped gratefully onto the landing, leaning against the archway as he caught his breath. Paris stretched out before him, not near as beautiful as she usually was, but it was still an awesome sight to behold. From a half-dozen places he could still see smoke rising, but most of the fires had been put out, it seemed. Good, the faster everything went back to normal the better.  
  
He crossed the bridge between the towers swiftly, darkness enveloping him as he went through the next archway and only faint shafts of sunlight illuminated the inside. The smell of wood flooded his nostrils and his steps now clunked against the floor instead of the sharp taps stone made. No doubt Quasimodo could hear him coming up the steps but he decided to call to him anyway. "Quasimodo!"  
  
There was no response. Frollo blinked in surprise and hastened up the last of the steps to Quasimodo's sanctuary. Everything looked exactly as he had left it the previous night, the chaos of Quasimodo's ruined Paris included. A small sigh escaped through his nose as he beheld the sight in the daylight; it seemed more tragic now than it did before. But Quasimodo had _disobeyed_ him again, he was absolutely right in punishing Quasimodo for what he had done, the only tragedy was that his charge had such beautiful things to destroy. "Quasimodo?" he asked again as he stepped into the room, his eyes locking on the charred piece of wood on the floor that had once been Esmeralda's figure.  
  
Silence greeted him. Now his heart began to thunder in his ears. Where had Quasimodo gone? Or, better yet, where had his guards put him? Perhaps they had him gagged somewhere or maybe they thought to make Quasimodo's stay more _permanent._ No! He did not tell them to harm Quasimodo, they would never do such a thing without his explicit permission! But then where was he?  
  
He swept away the mess on the table and placed his basket in the freed space, then bent down to pick up the plates and cups that he had knocked to the floor in his rage. He couldn't remember at all causing such a mess, just that he had been so very angry and yelling and wanting to take every bit of rage out on Quasimodo for helping Esmeralda escape him. Well, the past was the past now and it was time to fix whatever he had broken and make amends where he could. It was easy with Quasimodo, the poor child often forgave him anything and even apologized when it was not needed.  
  
Squinting, he tried to find Quasimodo's figure among the bells. He did love them so much, but he didn't think his guards would put him up there. There was nowhere to restrain him. The bells' metal skins glowed faintly in the light, hinting at mysteries and a beautiful music to come, but when so still they seemed to be nearly sleeping. The thought made him uneasy and he cast off the thoughts with a little shake of his head, like a bird ruffling his feathers. He really did not feel like climbing another hundred stairs to hunt for Quasimodo and peering into every corner, especially not today, so he took a deep breath.  
  
_"Quasimodo!"_ his yell echoed across the entire bell tower, even among the bells themselves, bringing a strange, somber note with it.  
  
When the last vestiges of his voice faded away, he heard another sound at last, so soft that he would have missed it entirely if he had not been listening so intently. It was coming from...down? Back the way he came.  
  
Puzzled, he took off at a brisk pace, climbing down the stairs loudly and bursting out into the day again. The red ribbon from his hat swished along the corner of his vision as he turned his head this way and that, trying to pin down the position of Quasimodo with his eyes, and yet he could still see nothing. "Quasimodo?" he tried again, wondering why his charge simply did not reveal himself.  
  
He heard the sound again, a sniffle, and a pitiful "Master," that croaked beneath him. Below again? He leaned over the railing and stiffened when he saw the multitude of chains wrapped around the supporting columns below, and right in the center of them like a fly caught in a horrid web—good heavens! They had wrapped him head to toe in chains, where did they even find so many?  
  
Frollo took off, scowling once more as he found the steps down and began to make his way there. He couldn't help but admire his soldier's dedication to their duty, dragging all those chains up here could not have been easy after all, but did they really need to go through all the effort? And why chain him between the towers of all places, why not the bell tower like he had said? Well, no matter, be free soon enough.  
  
Coming to the foot of the steps, he set off for Quasimodo, slowing his approach as he came closer. What a sight he made, his deformed body held down by the chains; if one was good at pretending they could imagine his twisted shape could have been produced by how tightly the chains pressed his body instead of it being his natural form. Frollo's eyes darted around, looking for a place where the chains could possibly end, a lock where they all connected to. He found it past the very first column, with the key still stuck inside, as luck would have it. He supposed his guards had moments of brilliance equal to their moments of foolishness.  
  
He reached out and turned the key, unhooking the chains from the lock and letting them fall away before he made his way to Quasimodo. The hunchback had not moved, still kneeling like Frollo had first seen him. Automatically, out of long habit, his hand reached out to gently brush against the hump on his back, then to his hair. Quasimodo trembled under his touch, ragged, sharp breaths leaving him as Frollo stepped around to kneel in front of him.  
  
"Quasi—" was all he managed to say before he was suddenly being crushed, Quasimodo's arms embracing him with a grip that drove out all the air from his lungs. He coughed and felt Quasimodo's face press into his robes, shaking with loud sobs that startled nearby birds into taking flight.

Frollo's first, and strongest, instinct was to push him away in disgust. But his arms were pinned to his sides and as the seconds wore on he felt his harshness subsiding gradually. Especially when he started to make out words among Quasimodo's blubbering.

"I'm sorry, M-Master, I'm so sorry for everything! P-please forgive me, I won't disobey you ever again—"

His irritation cooled as he listened, a small smile twitching to life across his face before he composed himself. "There, there, Quasimodo," he spoke gently, raising up his hand as much as he could to pat him awkwardly on the shoulder. "Do not be so upset, it is all over now. Everything can go back to the way it used to be."

Quasimodo sobbed wetly and Frollo tried very hard to not think of the mess he could be leaving all over his robes. "I should have never left at all," Quasimodo whispered. "If I had never left then none of this would have happened."

At last he was learning. Frollo smiled wider and stroked his hair gently. However, he mused, if Quasimodo had never left his tower then Esmeralda would have never come to his attention. She would have just been another wild gypsy dancer. He certainly wasn't going to thank Quasimodo for that, though. "That's right," he whispered back, "you shouldn't have."

"I'm sorry. Please Master, I won't do it again, please forgive me." Quasimodo bent over even more, hiding deeper into his robes as he awaited his judgement.

Frollo considered the scene for a moment, mulling it over in his mind and simply enjoying the sight. This would be far easier than he had originally thought. He knew he could drill the lesson further into Quasimodo's mind, he was soft and hurting enough that this time it would sink in and stay there, as much as any barbed arrow could. But the wounds were already there, still raw and bleeding.

_Wait between lashes. Otherwise the old sting will dull him to the new._

"You are forgiven," he said gently. This time he pushed Quasimodo gently, and the other understood and reluctantly loosened his grip. Frollo got to his feet and winced at the state of his robes; yes, they were wet and filthy just like he thought they would be. "You made mistakes, my boy, but that is why we confess our sins and beg for forgiveness in the first place, an honest admission is always deserving of forgiveness. God gave us free will, after all." He held out his hand to Quasimodo.

Quasimodo stared at it as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing, then, tentatively, he took it. His enormous hand engulfed Frollo's frail and delicate one, yet it was Frollo who pulled him and helped him to his feet. The chains fell from his body as he rose to his feet, wincing as his muscles finally got to stretched fully after being imprisoned for so long.

"Come, my boy," Frollo said, pulling him so he could step out of the chains. "I brought us lunch. Let us pray and ask God to take away ours sins and eat. Heaven knows it is a good time to do so."

Quasimodo still looked surprised, but he nodded and shuffled after Frollo as the other led the way back. Frollo took out his handkerchief and tried to wipe away the worst of the wetness on his robes, then he passed it back to Quasimodo. The younger took the hint and accepted it, wiping his face and blowing his nose with a noise that made the rest of the birds fly away.

"Master, do you—"

"No, you can keep it."

The air was clear, the gentlest of winds ruffling their clothes and whistling between the columns and niches of Notre Dame, smelling of the Seine and the city below. All was quiet for a long minute. Frollo took the stairs first, his graceful steps climbing easily, if slowly, with Quasimodo in tow. But the bellringer's voice could not stay silent for long, but he did not so much break the silence as he cracked it.

"You...you executed them all, Master."

The horrified whisper made Frollo look back, realization dawning upon him. So _that_ explained his location and his behavior, Frollo had been so surprised to find him there and too busy freeing him to put much thought into why his guards had chained him there in the first place. "Yes, I did," he replied, turning away again. "I executed a band of thieves, pirates, witches, and scum for their crimes against the people of Paris. Perhaps now the city will have some peace for once." His thoughts raced inside his head. Executions were held in front of the cathedral all the time, but never so many as today, and Quasimodo has seen it all. Ah, he had probably watched—

"Why did you free Esmeralda?" Quasimodo asked in a softly. He said it in a trembling voice, as if waiting for Frollo to turn and strike him for his impudence.

Of course he would want to know. Frollo knew he had an affection towards her, it was his gambling on that affection that led him to the Court of Miracles, after all. But, if that was his weakness then Frollo could use it in his favor. "She recanted," he responded. "So I spared her."

"What—what did you do to her after that?" Quasimodo asked. He seemed to be afraid of the answer.

The shadows covered them as they passed into the bell tower. Under their cover it seemed easy to tell the truth, and perhaps if Quasimodo knew that she was fine he would stop being so rebellious. "I sent her to the Palace of Justice," he said and heard a gasp at his heels. _"Not_ to imprison her. She is my guest there."

"Guest?" Quasimodo repeated incredulously.

"Yes, guest. Now stop pestering me, boy." Quasimodo's cove opened up before him and he stepped into it, waiting for Quasimodo himself to appear. When he did, the kindling anger and hurt so plainly visible on the bellringer's face gave him pause.

Knowing he had been caught, Quasimodo looked down, but his voice spoke bitter words to his feet. "How can you have her as a guest? What is she to you after everything she has done to you?"

Frollo frowned at him severely. "I am not half as heartless as you might think, Quasimodo," he said, his voice taking on a low and dangerous tone. "Remember how I took you in."

Quasimodo winced and just like that his anger seemed to break with it. "I—yes, Master. I am sorry for speaking like that to you."

The minister nodded, picking his way over to the table and uncovering the basket with a`ceremonial air. He saw how Quasimodo's eyes widened at the feast he brought them and beckoned to him. "Do you know where your rosary is?" At Quasimodo's nod he continued, "Then bring it here and come kneel with me. Let us pray and eat. It has been a very stressful few days, hasn't it?" All he wanted, needed right now was some peace and sleep. Lunches with Quasimodo always provided him with the former, he had never in living memory ever left them in a foul mood. Irritated sometimes, but never worse than when he came in.

Quasimodo nodded and darted out of sight and Frollo could hear him rummaging through the various items he had collected over the years. While he did, Frollo took off his own rosary and stared at it in the light, admiring its cold brilliance and glittering gems under his fingers.

Yes, a small time of quiet reflection would do quite well for the both of them.  
  


* * *

  
It was a little over an hour later when he finally left Notre Dame and began to head back to the Palace of Justice. His guards were still there, looking quite bored but not so much that he thought that they were doing absolutely nothing the whole time. They saluted him gratefully when he came into view and he nodded at them, mounting his horse easily.

When he turned to go, he heard the bells of Notre Dame. They clanged and sang from their tower, and Frollo looked back up with a smirk. It was not as beautiful as Quasimodo could usually make them sound, but that would change soon enough. Quasimodo was one to reflect on his past mistakes, but he loved the bells far too much to not put his heart into ringing them. "Back to the Palace," he said to his soldiers, who looked equally stunned to hear the bells pealing after an entire day of silence.

Evening was drawing upon the city as they rode back, a dark cloak wrapping around the streets like a kiss. Candlelight from the windows flared to life on occasion, and the spires of the Palace of Justice was a welcome sight to see after such a long day. It was not in Frollo's imagination that they were hurrying more than usual with Palace so close. All of the guard saluted him when they saw him riding up, and he had hardly handed away his horse and entered the Palace when his chief of staff came running up to greet him.

"Minister Frollo, we took care of the gypsy while you were away," the man said with a low bow.

Another set of good news. The day simply kept getting better and better. "Well done," he said with a curling smile. "Tell me, was she any trouble?"

The man shook his head. "Not at all, my lord, no. We gave her a room and food and she never complained, not even with the guard outside her door."

"Truly? What an unexpected change from her," Frollo mused, chuckling to himself as he listened.

"Would you like to see her, minister?"

"No, not right now," Frollo said with a wave of his hand. "Let her sit there. Take care of her needs but don't let her out."

"Sir," the man acknowledged and he brushed by him, heading for his quarters.

Now that he was back his exhaustion seemed to press on him twice as hard. His sleepless nights, chasing Esmeralda down, the whole day spent reading executions and being at the head of an enraged crowd, running up and down Notre Dame and talking with Quasimodo...even his steps seemed to stumble over one another. Once in a while his head would swim and he would have to take a deep breath to regain himself.

It couldn't have been soon enough that he made it to his own rooms, as comfortable of a place as he could possibly be. He didn't even bother to call someone to light the fireplace, he simply undressed himself and crawled under the covers of his bed. It seemed he had barely touched them before he was drifting off peacefully.

Now with the chase ended, all the cards in his hand, victory totally his, sleep claimed him easily. For once, he slept through the whole night.


	4. Rest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"The Lord replied, 'My Presence will go with you, and I will give you rest.'"_ —Exodus 33:14

She had no idea how long the carriage ride lasted. All Esmeralda remembered was the sound of the hooves, the swaying of the carriage, and the horrible, heaving sobs that fought their way out of her chest. It was like she had lost all control over her body and now she was at its mercy, tears and heaving breaths clawing at her throat and screaming into the seat. She had hoped that no one would stop and open the door and check on her, she just wanted to be alone. Horribly, and yet blessedly, alone.

The ride continued and in the silence, in the gentle peaceful calm of no one bothering her or prodding her or interrogating her, Esmeralda felt herself gradually growing more calm. Her tears still flowed and her breathing would not slow down, but with Frollo and his fire and the peasants with their rage gone her mind and body slowly started to understand that she was no longer in immediate danger and began to relax. Her limbs trembled all over and she could barely sit up, it felt like her tears had completely drained her body and there was nothing behind but her skin and her soul to give it form.

What was Frollo going to do to her? She knew _what_ he wanted, it was the same thing that every man wanted from her, but Frollo was in no way an ordinary man. Not just being a judge, but his whole character in general. Esmeralda had never, ever met a man like him before in her life and that was what frightened her more than anything. She couldn't predict him. Only sometimes she could guess what he would do and she would be correct, and her mistakes had cost her dearly with him.

She had known during the Festival that he would try to arrest her when she defied and insulted him. That was easy. But when she had escaped into Notre Dame she had expected him to keep looking all over the city, never dreaming that a gypsy would hide in the cathedral. She had been wrong. He found her within minutes. When the archdeacon overrode his authority she expected him to give up, as most would have. Instead he found a way around the archdeacon's orders and posted his soldiers outside. Then he waited for her.

A shiver traveled through her body at the memory. No man had ever pursued and chased her with the same relentless vigor as Frollo had. Most men she could slip away from as easily as a bird taking flight and they would run around chasing their own tails for a while before giving up, but Frollo nearly burned down the city. He had become like Satan and he let loose all his hellhounds in the hunt. God he could be so terrifying, so terrifying and cold and driven...but his soul rang like steel.

Her head swam and she groaned and leaned back against the carriage wall before she understood why. They had stopped moving. Her heart pounded again and she felt her muscles tensing, waiting for her door to open.

Even though she expected it, the sudden invasion of light still startled her. "Come on out, gypsy," a rough voice ordered her.

It was the sort of voice that had no patience for anything other than a quick obeying of orders. She had grown up on the streets and she had learned how to tell what type of guards were around just by their tone. Some would brush off sass and some would not.

Stumbling and forcing her shaking muscles to move, she stumbled to her feet and nearly fell out of the carriage when a hard, harsh hand caught her arm. It would have been less painful if a statue had caught her and she hissed between her teeth, trying to jerk it away. To her surprise, the guard let go. With her feet more firmly on the ground she had time to look at her surroundings and what she saw nearly made her fall again.

Not even the most fearless and hotheaded of the gypsies had ever dared to get close to Frollo's seat of power. Doing so would have merely been asking to get caught. All she had ever seen were the towers in the distance, but now at the foot of the Palace of Justice the size and stature of it was overwhelming, much like Notre Dame but different. Notre Dame was intimidating in its sheer size and simplicity, a thing that sat and dominated by its very nature, like a mountain. The Palace of Justice bristled like something alive and angry, its sharp spires conjuring up images of spears that looked as if they would fly out at any second to impale her were she stood.

"Miss?" a voice came to her ears, dragging her attention back to the present. From the tone, this was not the first time they tried to get her attention.

She looked back down to see a man dressed in a bright livery of various shades of reds, with a trimmed black beard, but other details about him eluded her. No matter how much she squinted she could seem to hold onto his face in her mind, it kept slipping away like water.

"This way, if you would please, miss," the man said slowly and patiently, beckoning her to follow him .

Yes, following was nice. All she had to do was put one foot in front of the other and let someone else decide where she was going. She tried it, her feet wobbled at first and she settled into the familiar rhythm quickly, and the man bustled off when he saw that she was moving.

She didn't remember the trip much at all, only vague impressions that couldn't really be used later in her memory. Stone halls, wooden halls, torches lighting the way, large windows that let in far too much light, staircases and warm air, and then it seemed like she had barely gone down a single hall before the man was stopping and opening a door for her. "This is your room, miss, on Minister Frollo's orders."

Frollo's name leaped into her brain, dragging her out of her shocked daze for a moment. "Frollo?" she blurted out, looking around, expecting to see him hovering behind her. "He—  
he isn't putting me in the dungeon?" That was the only place she could imagine him putting her.

The man gave her a very puzzled look, but spoke patiently. "Of course not. He said last night that you were to be given a room if you came here, and this is it." He waved her inside. "Come, I'm sure you will find it comfortable compared to—" he looked her up and down "—your other, ah, _homes._ Come, come." He disappeared inside.

Esmeralda was very, very confused. She tried to make sense of it but couldn't. Not because it made no sense, but she could get herself to focus on anything other than standing up straight, so she quickly gave up and followed the man into the room. Colors of red and gold assailed her eyes, red wood and golden bed, red and gold flames in the fireplace, it was everywhere and made her head dizzy. The bed looked nice, nicer than anything she had ever seen and she was honestly just a little afraid to touch it because anything that fancy screamed to her instincts that the moment she laid a hand on it then some puffed-up noble with far too much self importance would appear from thin air to shriek at her.

"Stay here," the man ordered her and swept out of the room, closing the heavy door behind him with a thud that shuddered the floor beneath her toes.

Esmeralda had not even turned to watch him go. She had been too busy staring at the bed, and the door shutting made her jump out of her reverie. Her hair whipped across her face as she glanced after him, but he was long gone. She was alone in the room...totally alone, in the Palace of Justice, of all places. Frollo's home.

Why?

She reached out and felt the covers of the bed. They were soft to her touch, so incredibly soft and cool, like water. A small smile graced, her face, a ghost of her former self and she very slowly crept closer, sitting herself gingerly upon the bed, as if she expected there to be a viper waiting under the blankets for her. When no misfortune befell her, she became more bold and rubbed both her hands along the fabric, delighting in its feel. Such bold and blazing colors, like—

_—the fire that he thrust heedlessly at her face, the flames mirrored in his eyes. "Say it again!"_

She jerked herself away from the memory, a shudder coming over her. But no matter how hard she tried she couldn't push the images in her head away.

Frollo standing right in front of her like Holy Michael as he weighed her soul in his hands, ready to cast her to the flames or lift her up and bear her away, all upon her choice.

Frollo with his torch, dark and light dancing across his figure until they melded together in a strange union that could not, _should_ not, exist.

Frollo's voice, so loud and commanding, booming across the square in a way that made her bones tremble and how the people were pulled to his words like puppets on a string.

Frollo cutting her free...his robes nearly embracing her, hiding her from sight and for once his looming presence was a comfort rather than a distress.

Esmeralda jerked and shook her head, rubbing her face in both of her hands as if she hoped to claw the visions out of her head with her nails. On the other side of the coin she remembered every line and detail of Clopin's face, his expression of utter horror aimed directly at _her._ She remembered Phoebus's fall, his useless cries for help to an uncaring crowd. She remembered the smoke pouring from the Court of Miracles as they sat in the cemetery bound in chains, after Frollo had gone back down one last time with a torch in hand.

All of it was _his_ fault. There was not a single event these past days which he didn't have his claws wrapped in. Burning Paris, burning the Court, trying to burn her, burning burning burning everywhere he touched his hands left flames how could he be Michael he had to be the Devil—

A loud click of the door opening jarred her out of her whirling thoughts. She sat up straight and stared, watching the man reappear with another servant, the latter bearing a tray and former carrying a bundle that she could not discern. Her palms pulsed with pain and she realized, belatedly, that her hands had curled into tight fists and her nails were digging into her soft flesh. She loosened them and winced at the new flares before the pain settled into a persistent ache.

The other servant, a man with a face so forgettable that Esmeralda barely even registered he had one and to her he seemed to just be a blurry figure, deposited the tray on a nearby table and made a hasty exit. To Esmeralda it seemed she had only blinked a few times and he had come and gone just like that. The other man lingered, however.

"Master Frollo wishes for you to have this, and to wear it," he said without prompting. He laid his burden next to the tray and left as well. He lingered in the doorway. "If you need anything, knock." Then the door closed behind him and this time she heard the lock click clearly.

Her mind had gone blank again at the words, unable to comprehend what she was hearing. Frollo was... _giving_ her things? No, there was no way that could be right. This was some sort of trick, a trap Frollo was setting for her to fall into. Nothing was simple with him, there were double and triple meanings in everything and deeper layers to peel away.

A smell reached her nose that instantly distracted her from her musings: food. She had no idea what it was but it smelled _delicious_ , her stomach growled at her almost painfully loud, and it was only then did she realize how starving she was. When was the last time she had eaten, actually? She couldn't remember, everything before Frollo's visit to her in that cage was either a frightening blank or like trying to see through a haze. She felt detached from those foggy memories, as if they belonged to another person, a demon who masqueraded as her that let her see what it had been doing through the window of her mind's eye.

Her stomach growled at her again and her limbs moved, sliding off the bed and stumbling over to the table and seating herself in the chair. It was an odd feeling that only served to make her feel more disconnected with everything around her. She was used to either holding her plate in one hand and eating with another, stuck somewhere too poor to afford tables, or in cheap taverns where crowds of people pushed up against her at the table and her plate was little more than stale bread with food piled on top of it. This was...a noble's refined table and she was sitting in a refined chair.

It was wrong, she felt like a cat with its fur rubbed the wrong way.

But the smell! That was more than enough to send those thoughts skittering away to whatever corner they dwelled in until she would need them again. On the tray was some sort of soup and bread that she didn't care to look too deeply into. The first bite nearly burned her tongue, but she didn't care and simply blew on it before eating it. She ate so fast she barely tasted it but the mixture of chicken and spices was still enough to set her senses dancing; she had only smelled such things before in the wealthy markets, she didn't even know any of their names.

It was too much, all of it too much. The hot food stuffing her stomach sent warmth and life flowing back into her veins, but she had eaten too quickly. Pain twisted in her belly, sharp and sudden as a knife, and it frozen her in place, too afraid to move. Even breathing was hard, her breaths came in quick, shallow gasps until finally it started to subside.

She should have known better. She grew up on the streets for crying out loud, one of the very first things she ever learned was not to eat anything too quickly after going without food for a long time!

With a groan, she leaned back, her eyes flicking to the bundle next to her. Her dark brows dipped as she stared. She did not like it in the slightest, things (she couldn't call it a gift) from Frollo were bad. But...he had fed her and let her stay in this room, for now, when he could have easily burned her at the stake. He _wanted_ her and he wouldn't bring her all the way here just to spoil it now. At least she was hoping so.

Her hand reached out and touched the fabric wrappings with the same trepidation that she would give to a snarling dog. It was rough, but that was not the important part. She unwrapped it very gently, then a gasp left her lips at what it revealed to her. A dress of light blue wool, light as the sky, and with vibrant orange and yellow among the folds. Her hand had frozen in mid-reach, stretched out to the dress, and she pressed it forward the last few inches to graze the dress with a very tips of her fingers.

This was too much. She stood up abruptly, wincing as her stomach cramped again and her head swam. Everything was too much, everything was pressing down on her again. Her memories, her relief at being alive, _Frollo._

She stumbled back, groping her way toward the bed. It was as cool and soft, she had somehow managed to completely forget about that until she was touching it again and now it was like she was experiencing it for the first time. She couldn't even have dreamed of sleeping in such a bed, mostly because she tried to dream realistically, and to be laying on cobblestone roads one day and then a few hours later crawling into _this_ bed made her question her own mind.

Maybe she had actually died back there. Maybe Frollo had lit the fire and she had perished and she was now in some very strange sort of heaven. Her head felt clouded enough for it.

She curled up under the blankets, burying as deeply into them as she could without hampering her breathing, and was asleep in minutes.

* * *

When she woke up she was in the dungeons. Pitch black, just like dungeons should be, and—

No, she could feel the soft fabric of the bed enveloping her. She couldn't be in the dungeons, she had to be in—the room. The room that Frollo had put her in. A whole room. That was still odd to think about.

She looked around, noticing faint shafts of moonlight coming in through the window, and a pile of logs in the fireplace that were all red coals. Someone had to have come in her room and stoked the fire, there was no way the coals would still be glowing if she slept through the whole day. Why wouldn't they have awoken her, though? Nothing made sense.

Her head felt much clearer after such a long and deep sleep. This time when she stood up she did not stumble, and she squinted her eyes to adjust them to the gloom. She noticed a candle holder on the nightstand with a long candle sticking out of it, and she hooked her finger through the loop to carry it with her to the fireplace. It took some blowing and fanning, but eventually she was able to get the coals hot enough to light her candle with. The beautiful golden glow seemed to soften the impressions the room made around her and she found the idea of being in this room at all easier to accept in her mind.

Esmeralda paced the room, touching the walls, the bed, the table, all the furniture as she passed by it. Everything but the dress. The floor was cold under her bare feet but she hardly noticed it, not when her feet were used to much worse. Around she went again, the room becoming more believable as she kept touching it. This wasn't a trick, she really was in this room and it was (maybe) hers?  
  
The door was dark and harsh, the shape reminded her of the indomitable Notre Dame. She stared at it, wondering. Who had been in her room? Was it was of the servants or Frollo himself? She couldn't imagine Frollo coming to visit her without waking her, and yet the thought of the judge leaning over her sleeping form and staring at her was something she could _definitely_ picture. But Frollo wouldn't tend to her fireplace himself, not when he had a whole staff of willing servants to do such work for him.

With steps that made no sound against the stone, she went to the door and hesitated before knocking. It opened a second later and light poured into the room through the hall, blinding her for a moment. "Yes?" a man's voice asked her.

Words did not come to her. In fact she hadn't thought of anything to say since she was sure the door wouldn't open anyway. "I—" she faltered, frantically stumbling for something to say. "Where is Frollo?" she asked and immediately regretted it. She only wanted to know if he had come by earlier and that was _all._

"The minister is asleep and is not to be bothered," another voice answered her, another servant. "Now that you are awake, would like some food from the kitchens?"

"Um," she replied, her hands clenching the candle nervously. People asking her if she wanted anything was rare. As in, it never happened. The question thrown at her so calmly and casually made her head spin. "Yes?" she said, her tone curling at the end as if she was the one asking the question.

The servant and guard exchanged a look. "Very well," the servant answered and bustled off down the hallway.

The hallway. Now that Esmeralda was more awake she noticed the details better. Indeed made of stone, with torches flaring brightly in their prisons, and windows to show the night sky. Definitely not underground, at least. She knew there were eyes on her and she looked up into the face of the guard, who was staring at her expectantly. For what? She floundered again and took a step back, closing the door behind her in a rush.

She pressed her back against the door, trying to calm herself from the whirl of new events and sensations that small interaction provided her. So could she just ask for food and receive it? Was that how things worked around here? That couldn't possibly be correct but those were the impressions she was getting. Back in the Court everyone had their own food and the rare communal stew pot often had fights and thievery around them. In the Palace of Justice it was just received upon asking?

The room swam in front of her head again and she pressed her hand to her forehead, trying to calm her heart. She hadn't recovered yet from, well, everything, she guessed. She remembered times where she had almost been caught while trying to escape guards, and a few memorable occasions where she practically had been captured and her friends had to come to her aid. Even those took a couple of days to get over. To be imprisoned and put right on the stake, believing she was going to die—her heart still trembled at the very thought of it.

She had to sit down. The table was closest and she made her way over to it, plopping into the chair with little grace. As if drawn by an invisible hand, her eyes fell inevitably onto dress, laying precisely where she last left it. She wasn't going to touch it again, she told herself firmly, she would look but not touch. She was indeed grateful—in a small, bitter way that made her jaw clench just thinking about it—to Frollo for saving her but Frollo was going to have to get used to some disappointment in his life.

Damn him for sending her a dress like this. Esmeralda would have been much happier if he had just sent her some servant dress instead to replace the white chemise she was still wearing. She would have laughed at his attempts to humiliate her and worn the clothes proudly.

But, perhaps he knew that already. Maybe that was why he sent this dress.

Esmeralda sighed and placed her head into her hands. Trying to second-guess Frollo was far too much of a headache. She rubbed her temples, her mind briefly thinking about the others. How had she gone from hiding from Frollo to wondering about the dress he had sent her within a day?

Well, she knew exactly _how_ but that didn't make it any less confusing.

Or accusing. She had betrayed them, after all. Turned her back when the rope had been offered to her and grabbed it, letting the rest of them drown.

A knock at the door startled her and the servant entered, carrying a plate and a goblet which he set down in front of her with a bow. Then he turned and started to tend to the fire, poking it and throwing logs onto the coals.

That was starting to make her just a little uneasy. She knew servants were often ignored completely by their masters until something was needed and thus acted like such, but that didn't make it any less strange to see. Instead she tried to focus on her plate, which a large pie sat upon, much bigger than the ones at the market which could fit into her hand. she picked up her fork and took a bite, smiling widely at the warm food which was so often a rarity with her life. The center was colder, though. The pie had been made a while ago and then warmed up by the kitchen fire.

"Will you be needing anything else?" the servant asked of her, now a roaring fire in the fireplace after his ministrations.

Esmeralda shook her head at him, and he bowed and left the room. She watched him go with unblinking eyes, and the second the door was closed she dug into her pie with all restraint gone, sighing at the taste. Spices again, and now that she was more focused she noticed a few of them. Cinnamon, definitely, that smell was unforgettable. Perhaps cloves, too? There was a heavy sweet-spicy aroma and taste to the meat that was just divine.

She reached for her cup and took a swig and another delight hit her when it was rich wine she drank and not beer. Not the cheap tavern wine she was used to, either, but a rich, heady wine that tasted exactly like the grapes that made it rather than vinegar's grandfather.

Between the pie and the wine she found her head in a whirl and this was without a doubt the best meal she had in her whole life. The soup was a close second but her head had been so clouded and unfocused on everything that she couldn't remember the soup that well, just the faint tastes and impressions it left behind. When there was nothing but crumbs behind she stretched herself out languidly, sighing and holding the rest of her wine in her hand, the goblet mostly drained at this point.

She stared into the fire, smiling and swaying back and forth to a tune only she knew. Or was the room swaying? She frowned at the thought and checked her cup, before shrugging and drinking the rest of it. It went down so easily that it made her want to dance and set her belly aflame, prodding her to get to her feet. But she had barely taken a step before she tilted and had to grab the chair for balance. No, it was the room spinning alright.

How in the world had she managed to get drunk? She only had one, albeit large, cup of wine and it didn't even taste like alcohol that much! Unprompted, a memory dragged itself to the forefront of her mind:

_A gypsy man, filling their cups with wine as he lamented, jokingly, of how the common people often drank such a harsh wine while the nobles' tongues were softened from their much gentler vintages. He had said he one managed to steal a bottle of wine from a wagon shipping a load to some noble's estate, and he boasted several times how rich and flavorful had been, but also soft. He drank the entire thing and later spent the whole night throwing up and passed out with his cloak around his head to stop the world from spinning._

The laughter from the memory, Clopin's being the loudest of them all, cut her like the finest knife and her eyes burned from the onslaught of emotion that welled up in her chest. A single, sharp sob was all she would allow herself to make before she bit her lip and pressed her palms hard into her eyes. She had to stop. She had to stop _thinking_ about them. She had to stop thinking about the Court of Miracles as if it was still there and she could flee to it if she only managed to sneak her way out of this place.

It was gone. They were gone. All the colorful banners and wagons and tents, all of them had become fuel for Frollo's fire. And so had they. Clopin, but then who after? Phoebus?

 _Stop it!_ She bit her lip so hard she thought she was going to taste blood at any moment. The pain brought her back, gave her something present and _now_ to focus on. She had to stop thinking about them, she had to survive now, for all of their sakes. If anything she could do that for them.

Esmeralda sighed and stumbled over to the bed. That had wine probably been just as potent, maybe more so, than anything she would find in some dockside tavern. That was why she was so dizzy and letting her guard down, letting those feelings control her. She had to learn how to get a hold of herself, the war with Frollo was not over yet and she knew he would be pitiless against her.

She nearly fell onto her bed, smiling briefly at the rocking sensation and the feeling of the blankets around her again. A part of her wanted to scold her for sleeping so much, but did she really have anything better to do? Besides, she was still exhausted from everything that had happened since even the Festival and what was going to happen if she slept some more hours? She buried her face into the pillow and drifted off in contentment.

This time, her sleep was not peaceful.

There was always a presence hovering in her mind, never seen but always felt. It pursued her like a hawk and no matter where she ran in her dreams, it would always follow. She tossed and turned in her bed and yet it persisted, something above her, knowing who she was and simply watching.

Whatever dreams she had were merely fragments she could remember. She knew some were disturbing and others were peaceful, memories of happier times, but they were all blown away by the feeling that crept along her spine and soul.

At one point, she felt her skin tingle as her hair was tugged and parted. For a moment Esmeralda smiled at the familiar sensation, then a bolt of terror went through her as she realized someone was running their fingers through her hair.

She jerked awake, a gasp leaving her shocked lips. Someone was stroking her hair, someone was—her head whipped around and her eyes darted up to meet: his. There he was at last, leaning over her and his dark eyes locked onto her face like a hungry man seeing a feast before him.

Judge Claude Frollo.

 


	5. Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"Those who guard their mouths and their tongues keep themselves from calamity."_ —Proverbs 21:23

When he awoke it was to a bright sun shining through his window, its radiance restored overnight it seemed. Frollo winced and rubbed his eyes, his movements slow and leaden. He had finally slept, thank God, but he still felt strange and weak. His head was clogged with wool and even though his body responded to his wishes it felt as if it didn't belong to him.

With a small groan he sat up, moving gingerly and taking long pauses between his bouts of action. He had to let his head adjust to being awake, to everything being peaceful again. Minutes passed before he was able to slide himself out of his bed, into his house shoes and stand upright. He stretched himself long and languidly, like a cat, and glanced around the room. His robes were gone, taken away during the night to be cleaned undoubtedly, and his fire was burning small flames. Near fresh, then.

He bent down and tossed a log into the flames and then went to the door. He rapped his knuckles against it sharply and it opened beneath his touch. "Bring me water to wash myself with, and breakfast," he ordered the servant waiting outside. He heard a murmur of affirmation and the door closed again.

Left with nothing to do but wait, he turned and walked slowly back to the fireplace, basking in the warmth it provided. Nightgowns were not made to keep someone very warm and now without the protection of his blankets he could feel the gentle chill of the room creeping into him. When the cold had been sufficiently driven away he reached up to grab the rosary around his neck and take it off, then he knelt by his bed.

Normally his morning prayer would have only taken a minute or two, but he had been so tired last night that his nightly prayer before going to sleep had utterly slipped his mind. He had never, ever done that before, the very thought was unimaginable to him and yet there it was in his memory, no trick or hallucination. He vowed to make it up with and especially long prayer today and threw himself into his devotion, Latin spilling from his heart with more perfection and precision than he could remember in a long time. The words _sang_ in the air, seemed to vibrate with their own energy as if they plucked at the fabric of existence around him.

" _Confiteor Deo et beatae Mariae semper virgini,_

_et beato Michaeli archangelo et beato Iohanni baptistae_

_et sanctis apostolis Petro et Paulo_

_et beato Leutherio et Cassiano et beato Iuvenale_

_cum omnibus sanctis et tibi patri_

_mea culpa, quia peccavi nimis..."_

During his praying he heard the door open, but he continued on unperturbed.

" _Per superbiam in multa mea mala iniqua et pessima cogitatione,_

_locutione, pollutione, sugestione, delectatione, consensu, verbo et opere-"_

The servant did not interrupt him and he did not acknowledge the other's presence, and he heard a clunk of something being set down on his dresser. Then the footsteps retreated and the door closed behind him. Silence reigned once more, broken only by his words.

" _In periurio, in adulterio, in sacrilegio, omicidio, furtu, falso testimonio,_

_peccavi visu, auditu, gustu, odoratu et tactu,_

_et moribus, vitiis meis malis._

_Precor beatam Mariam semper virginem et omnibus sanctis_

_et isti sancti et te pater,_

_orare et intercedere per me peccatore Dominum nostrum Ies. Christum."_

But that was not enough for his sin. The other prayers came to him easily, the prayers of the Rosary, the gems warm under his hand as he held them, as if Mary was taking his hand in hers as her gesture of forgiveness. His heart swelled in his chest but he did not stop, he could not.

When it had finally ended, he stood up and replaced the rosary around his neck, wincing as his knees unbent from their position on the cold stone floor. Turning, he saw that a large bowl of lavender water had been left for him on the dresser. He went over and dipped his fingers into it. Warm still, plenty warm. He dug out a bar of soap from one of the drawers and a towel and dipped his hands into the water completely to wash them with the soap. Then, after undressing and wetting the towel, he rubbed it with soap and proceeded to wash his face and neck, then down his arms where he could see patches of dirt and smoke from the excursions of the past few days. There were other spots as well, but few. He would call for a proper tub in a few days, but for now he was far too busy to spend time with it.

It was quick, precise work. He knew breakfast would be arriving soon and he had little time left for luxuries such as slowness. Once he rinsed the soap off he headed to his chest, lifting the lid to find his spare robes and his hat neatly folded inside. Frowning, he lifted the hat and sniffed it. It still smelled like smoke. Unfortunately he had no replacements, it was unique, so he would have to deal with the smell for today and send it off to be washed later. He quickly pulled out his minister robes and garments he wore beneath them, slipping them on as quickly as he could.

He had barely finished and was still adjusting the black velvet to lay properly across his shoulders before there was a knock at his door. "Enter," he growled, reaching down to snap the lid shut.

The door opened and a servant entered, bearing a plate and cup on a platter. He bowed to Frollo with a "Master," slipping from his lips as he set his load down.

Frollo nodded and waved him away, coming to peer over at what he had been brought. A piece of bread with salted trout and a cup of wine. Excellent. He reached out for it, then paused, realizing that the servant had not moved. "Well, out with it, what is it?" he demanded, turning his head ever so slightly to pin the servant with a glare.

The man bowed again. "A messenger arrived earlier this morning, Minister Frollo," he said apologetically. "He was sent by the bishop."

His stomach gave a little leap and his hand dropped, food forgotten. "And? What did he say?" he questioned, trying to keep his tone calm even though a part of him wanted to snap and demand answers from the other. This had to be about yesterday, there was no other reason. The bishop had heard of the executions and was responding. But with what?

"Nothing, Minister. He has a letter from the bishop and said he would show it to no one but you."

* * *

Food and wine had settled his stomach some and he sat rigid in his chair, spine straight as he waited for the bishop's messenger to be announced into his office. Frollo was certain that whatever it was Beaumont had to say it wouldn't be bad, but dealing with the archdeacon was bad enough, he didn't need to juggle any more members of the clergy in his daily life. It didn't matter that he was one.

His eyes flicked over to the window, where he could see the towers of Notre Dame far off in the distance. He wondered if the bishop would ask about Esmeralda. It had been no secret that he had spared her, but he wondered if many would even remember it. Vulgar, idiotic peasants would only remember something until the next new curiosity stumbled across their attention and they would be off chasing that instead, but more noble, intelligent men...that was a harder one. Perhaps he would mention it, perhaps not, either way he had to be prepared for it.

The sounds of bells came to his ears, and he perked up at them. Quasimodo was ringing the bells? Whatever for? It couldn't be past noon already, could it? Frollo sighed and rubbed his temples, staring at the eternal blue sky and the world it swallowed up below it. Heaven have mercy now he was sleeping in late, this was horrible...another sigh left him. One more thing that was Esmeralda's fault.

The door opened and he snapped back into position. "The messenger is here, Minister," a servant announced.

"Bring him in then," Frollo ordered. There was a glimpse of red and the man entered, his clothes immediately identifying him as a clerk of the Church.

The man stopped in front of Frollo's desk and bowed. "Good day to you, Minister Frollo, and may the blessings of the Lord shine upon you."

" _Etiam te,_ good sir," Frollo replied with a dip of his head. "It is a great honor to have you here. Tell me, what does the Most Reverend Beaumont wish to say to me?"

The man reached into his bag and slid a roll of parchment out, and presented it to Frollo. "It is for your eyes only," he said, speaking this time in Latin as Frollo had done. "You have done a great service to Paris and for His Most Reverend, I am sure it will say so in the letter."

Frollo's eyes landed upon the seal holding the parchment shut. Green wax. That meant it was important. He extended his hand and took the paper from the messenger, its quality evident from its weight in his hand. So, was this truly important or was it ceremonial importance? He broke the seal and unrolled the parchment, his eyes scanning the letters quickly.

_To the most prestigious Minister Claude Frollo, Lord Provost of Paris, I, Beaumont, Bishop, send you greetings in the Lord._

_You have performed a most commendable service to Paris and to Our Lord in our fight to drive out the heathen menace from our city. Surely God was lighting your path when He led you to uproot their nest of demons and satanic worshipers to purify Paris and the morals of her people. I have_ —

Ah, ceremonial importance then. He felt his shoulders loosening somewhat as he read over the passages, filled with the bishop's sophisticated, if somewhat superfluous, writing. None of it in particular stood out, not that he expected this type of letter to, until he reached the bottom.

— _and in light of recent events I deemed it necessary, if not obvious, that you receive a token of my appreciation. Along with this letter I give to you a ring from the Notre Dame treasury and 500 livre tournois for your dedication._

_I pray that you receive them well and that the blessings of the Lord and our Savior Jesus Christ will continue to follow you in good health and good spirit, Minister Frollo._

He closed the letter, handling the paper so it carefully rolled back up and looked to the messenger who was still standing and waiting patiently for him. "His Most Reverend is extremely generous," he said, "and his words humble me greatly."

"His Most Reverend holds you in high esteem," the messenger replied with a smile, and reached into his bag once more. A small, elaborately carved wooden box came out, which he placed in front of Frollo. "He also said you may keep the box, as to part them would be like to part a sword and shield."

Frollo's lips twitched in a smirk and he opened it, revealing the ring nestled inside. He took hold and examined it. By weight alone it was pure gold, engraved with scrollwork motifs until the band started to widen. The black cabochon gem was framed with an engraving of a haloed animal on one side, and on the other the letters _A.D._ in the midst of the scrollwork. Angus Dei. Lamb of God.

A shiver of unease passed through him, but it was gone as quickly as it came. "I am honored to accept it," he said as he examined the size of the ring compared to his own. Finally he slid off his emerald ring and replaced it with the bishop's. It was only larger by a fraction and he wondered how the bishop knew what size would fit his hand. "And I would be most surprised if you carried five hundred livre tournois coins all the way up here yourself."

The man gave a smile of amusement. "Of course not, Minister. I gave the gold to your treasurer when I came here, he is in charge of it now."

"Excellent," Frollo replied, steepling his fingers. "If you wait a moment I will write back to His Most Reverend and then you can go on your way."

The man bowed again and Frollo quickly opened one of his drawers to draw out parchment, ink, and a quill pen. Such a simple thank you note did not take much grandiose writing and prose, but it was the bishop he was writing to all the same. Frollo's penmanship was excellent and precise, almost mathematically so, and his pen danced across the paper as he wrote. Even the messenger looked surprised by how soon he put his quill down and reached into his sand box in the drawer to sprinkle the fine sand over his fresh ink. "A sous for your duty," he said, reaching into his purse to hold up the silver coin.

Bowing generously, the man accepted it. "Thank you, Minister."

A candle had already been burning, so it was little trouble to melt the wax he needed to seal his letter. "Does His Most Reverend say anything else? Something that is not written, perhaps?" He waited a few seconds for the wax to start drying, then pressed his seal ring into it.

"Not at all, Minister."

"Alright then, off you go," Frollo replied, handing the letter to the messenger. He watched him go, his mind whirling with thoughts.

His gaze turned down to look at his hand, the bishop's ring on the forefinger and his seal ring on the ring finger. Juxtaposed they created an image in his mind, the forgiver and the executioner. In the same hand he held both the axe and the olive branch, the sword and the shield as the bishop put it. He smiled at the idea and held his hand up to the sunlight, watching as the gold gleamed under it and yet the raised patterns in his seal left some parts in the deepest shadow. The cabochon was as black as ink, like that night where he had walked through a forest of smoke and beheld his gypsy in her cage, that night when he realized what her skin felt like against his lips for the first time.

He shivered and ran his fingertips over them. How in the world had this even happened? It was just days ago when he was merely attending another Festival of Fools, just like he had every single year before. But this time it had turned out so different, spiraled out of control into a series of crazed events that ran away from them all like a hysterical horse, unresponsive to his touches on the reins. And that was days ago! Mere days! It felt like years.

Yet now...it had only been one night. One night of rest for him, and one night of having _her_ under his roof.

Her skin had been so soft, her blood had beat against his lips.

Her smell was unlike anything he had ever known. Unlike anything he could have ever _dreamed_ with his vows. The memory of it haunted him, in the darkness where it had seemed like they had been the only two humans left in the entire world. She made him forget everything when she was around.

He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor in protest. He swept past the desk, eyes flinty and feet swift as he threw open the door and charged out, startling the life out of the servant standing outside, and down the hallways that he knew better than anyone.

* * *

The guard outside of her door straightened when he saw Frollo coming, standing perfectly at attention in an attempt to look as if he had been doing so the whole time. The servant jumped to his feet as well, apparently the two of them had been playing some sort of game on a tiny table when Frollo came up. Not that he cared in the slightest, his focus was on one thing only.

"Is she in there?" he demanded as he came close.

They both nodded. "Yes sir," the guard said, short and simple, as if that was all he needed to say.

"She is asleep," the servant added quickly, perhaps noticing Frollo's forming scowl.

Frollo arched an eyebrow at the words. How could she still be sleeping in the middle of the day? "Did she ever awaken?" she asked, his tone cooling in his curiosity.

"Yes, for a little while."

Eyes darting to the door, he stared at it for a moment as if he could see her through it. She saw the very same door, touched, was behind it right this _second._ "Go get another soldier and bring him here," he said to the servant. He waited for him to scurry off before turning his attention to the other. "And you. Let no one inside. And do not interrupt unless I call you, understand?"

A salute was his answer. Satisfied, Frollo brushed by him and opened the door, entering the room of softly patterned red and gold that glowed gently in the faint sun from the southern window. He had never liked this room much, but for keeping guests it had been acceptable to their more gaudy tastes. But here Esmeralda fit as perfectly as a hand in a glove.

Immediately he saw her, and his full attention was arrested by what he saw. She was curled into her blankets, nearly invisible except for the wild cloud of hair that splayed all across her pillow, its waves reminiscent of sand on the seashore. For what felt like an eternity he stared at that alone, frozen in place, mesmerized by every single curve and glitter of spare light he could see trapped among the hairs. He remembered how it flew when she danced, so wild and vibrant and _alive._ How she was alive, how she had leaped upon him without the slightest trace of fear, her touch so warm against his face while her eyes never left his, such a deep green that _promised_ things that no good man would ever dare to whisper out loud in even the darkest of night.

Satan had surely hand-crafted her in the fires of Hell to torment his soul. That had to be it.

As sudden as ice breaking across a frozen lake, she moved. Frollo jumped a little, but she only shifted under her covers and then she was silent again. But, like that, her spell on him was lifted and he could think clearly again. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head, but the gypsy woman was still there. Sometimes he wondered if she was just a product of his own imagination, something his mind conjured up to remind him of what temptation looked like, but he knew he was just being utterly ridiculous in those bouts of insanity.

Shaking his head again, he made his way closer, his steps making a bare whisper of a sound until he was standing right at the very edge of the bed. His robes flirted with the blanket each time he breathed, a soft teasing almost daring to touch before they danced away. The same way she had danced away from him after kissing him. He stood there for a few minutes longer, simply watching, wanting, letting his mind run wild with thoughts that he knew would absolutely land him in the deepest pits of Hell, all ones that she _put_ there. He had already tasted her, touched her, and she had chosen him over death in the fire. She had accepted.

He let out a breath and very slowly moved to sit down. His heart was thundering in his ears as he did, the bed dipping beneath him as it took more of his weight. When had settled all of his weight down she moved again, rolling over with a mumble, and his heart leaped into his throat. He was not afraid of waking her up, but he just didn't want her to, not yet.

Now she was so close he could have touched her with one wrong, careless movement. Instead he reached his hand out and caught a strand of her hair between his fingers. He had never done anything so carefully in all his life, and he bent down as he lifted her hair up. Gently, so gentle and slow that he nearly shook from the effort, he bent down and kissed her hair. It was as soft as he remembered, warm as if it had a lifeblood of its own, and it smelled like her. Even through the smell of smoke that clung to her, he could smell her beneath it. It made the hairs on his body rise and his spine tingle, the mere knowledge of it, and he dropped it and sat up again, his head spinning.

She was too much, a strong and heady wine that went immediately to the head after it was sipped. Witchcraft, absolutely. Yet the accusation didn't seem to have as strong of a sting in his head as it did before. He knew that it would later, but his senses seemed to be clogged around her, anything that wasn't her didn't truly matter.

There was no way he was going to sit here all day and just watch her. He was insane but not by that much. Already he longed to hear her voice and see her eyes. Again he reached out and this time he caught her hair fully in his hand and let it run through his fingers, marveling at how thick and soft it was.

Esmeralda stirred under his hand, just like he knew she would. He watched, hungry as she moved and became more aware of the world around her, held in his hands alone. Her lips curled, a contented smile playing across her face and _oh,_ she _liked_ it. Frollo felt as if he would never move ever again, even as she came to life underneath him. She turned her head into his hand, then her eyes suddenly flew open in shock, the tranquility shattered as fear came over her and she whipped her head around, her hair jerking out of his grip, to meet his eyes.

His heart raced in his chest, not at all out of fear, and he tried to keep still and poised as he watched her move, unwilling to let even the slightest bit of his excitement show through. Esmeralda was always so intriguing to watch, he knew he would never tire of it. He felt his own smile appearing. Now she was all _his._

Silence stretched between them for a second that lasted a lifetime, going more and more taunt until it snapped. All within the space of that second Esmeralda's eyes had gone from afraid to angry, and her expression was morphing under it. "What are you _doing_ here?!" she hissed, trying to jerk herself away from him into some sort of sitting position, but the weight of the blankets seemed to impede her movements somewhat.

The question was so absurd to him that he had to chuckle. "I _live_ here," he said, folding his hands together in his lap. "I can go wherever I please."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously at him, in that way he loved that told him she would be spitting fire at any moment. "Get out," she said, her voice low.

It was about as useless as trying to argue with a thunderstorm. Frollo's smile never faltered. "No."

Anger leaped across her eyes and her arm moved. "I said _get out!"_ she snarled, her hand held firm and fast, ready to inflict pain.

Frollo barely caught her wrist in time, holding her in a vice grip. She was always so predictable and so easy to anger, playing with her was a whole other game. Her other arm went to strike him and he had to duck away, his hat slipping even as he caught that arm, too. But her fingers flailed, wanting to claw at something, anything vulnerable, but all they caught was a fold of fabric in his hat and yanked it off his head.

She fought and tried to kick at him uselessly, until he used his weight to pin her hands down beside her head and then he was looming over her, boring into her eyes with his gaze. She stilled, her breaths coming quick in her chest, yet she was still defiant as she gazed up at him. _Good._ "You chose me, Esmeralda," he whispered. "Remember that."

Her lip curled. "You forced me to," she retorted, her voice laced with bitterness and anger. And, ah, a note of guilt? Someone's sins were weighing heavy upon her soul indeed.

"I never did a thing," Frollo said, leaning closer until their faces were inches apart. He could feel the curve of her body under him, how it pressed against him so deliciously. "I did not force you to choose me nor did I put those words in your mouth, in the end your choice was your own."

The gypsy writhed in a vain attempt to throw him off. "Because you were going to burn me!" she yelled, trying to force herself past his strength and weight.

"And if not me then someone else would have!" Frollo thundered back, his grip becoming painful. "You're a witch, and who would have helped you after that accusation? Those people would have torn you apart themselves if I had let them. My greatest mercy and kindness to you was to even give you a chance of life."

He watched as she became still, pain crossing her features at his words, but Frollo did not relent. He had seen it far too many times, how the cold, harsh truth cut right through the armor of delusion to the vulnerable flesh underneath. Quasimodo had often needed such a treatment, but Esmeralda was made of far stronger stuff, she would take far more before she would break. "You just saved me because you want me," she murmured, her words an acceptance, a desperate grabbing of the truth and throwing it at his face in a pitiful attempt to use his greatest weapon against him. "I know what you're like, and how you look at me."

Her veins were beating under his hands, a counterpoint to his own pounding pulse. Frollo let his thumbs wander across her flesh, delighting in how soft it had been kept by her bracelets. "Your words show me how little you truly know," he said, fascinated by how her eyes tried to contain her emotions and thoughts. "I don't want anything from you. You're a witch and you cast a spell on me back at the Festival, your magic is in my head and twisting my mind and thoughts! But—" his smile widened and he leaned closer, dropping his voice, "I will save us both. Your soul is damned to Hell for all eternity but I can offer _redemption,_ it will bring us back into the Grace of God."

Her fingers clenched a little, and he noticed the half-healed marks of nails across her flesh. "You're insane," she said, her voice dropping again, as if such a proclamation could not be spoken too loudly or else the retribution would be swift and terrible.

An emotion passed over him, something he couldn't identify but it made him want to laugh. "I am more sane than I have been in days, demon," he hissed back, "I know what I must do."

And he kissed her.

It was even better than what all of his wild, sinful thoughts had told him. Her lips burned against his, more fiery than any brand, searing an unseen mark into his flesh that he knew he would carry in his soul until the day he died. It was unnatural to have lips so soft and yet so warm, it had to be magic, something unholy, yet it plunged him into the depths of darkness and desire that made him react without thinking. He pressed closer, kissed deeper, wanting to consume it all for himself. There was a part inside of him that he had never known existed until this moment, a hidden part that had been _starving,_ crying for relief until it raised its head in ravenous hunger at the morsels offered before it.

Black magic, dark magic at work, he was going to enjoy driving the demons from her flesh and soul.

Then there was true fire, pain that spiked through his lip and jolted him out of his daze and back to the real world. He jerked back instinctively and it doubled, a hiss leaving his throat as he felt Esmeralda's teeth holding him in place, biting harder and harder and—his hand moved by itself, completely thoughtless like how one takes their hand away from a fire to stop the pain, and grabbed her hair, yanking it as hard as he could.

A cry of pain left Esmeralda's throat, her now free hand slapping and hitting every inch of him that she could reach. She didn't let go, but neither did he. On their wills fought, storm against stone. One would have to give up, to submit for the dance to end.

Frollo clenched his fist and pulled harder, threatening to pull Esmeralda's hair out by its roots. Finally, her mouth opened as she cried out loud, releasing him. But her hand struck out again and this time, it finally hit. Her slap echoed across the room as it caught him full in the face and she tore away from him, whether his grip had gone loose or she had a burst of strength he didn't know. But she was gone.

His rage quickly returned and he leaped from the bed after her, his hand grabbing a moment too late as she fled from him. She ran around the table and gave chase. He knew that following her would be foolish, and instead cut her off before she could make a run for the door. She stopped in mid-flight and glared at him from over the table, even as she trembled. She had nowhere to go and they both knew it.

But ah, she was still wearing her execution chemise, he could see. Not that Frollo had really expected her to change into the dress his chose, in fact he would have been very surprised if she did, but the choice amused him all the same. So she preferred to be the lamb, then.

Blood, he could taste blood. He reached up with his other hand and touched his lip, watching as his fingertips came away red.

"So you do bleed, then," Esmeralda's quivering voice broke the silence. She was making a valiant attempt to still sound angry and controlled, despite everything.

Frollo chuckled and used his handkerchief to wipe the rest of the blood, wincing as the fabric touched his injury briefly. Not even that could bring him down from the jubilation that his heart danced in, nor the impressions banished from his mind that her touch and taste and even _pain_ brought him. "I was right, witch," he said softly, nearly caressing the words as he said them. His breathing was too fast, too shallow, but he did not care. "Fire truly would not have affected you." He stepped closer as he spoke, and she stepped back, her eyes growing wider, but never leaving his face.

Defiant, audacious demon! How dare she hide herself behind the veil of innocence and fear when he could see so clearly through her! He would peel that mask away to reveal her true nature underneath, a spawn of Hell that had crawled out of the dark forests and into the world to drag men back to the fiery lakes from whence she had arrived. But not him! He understood and he would not be led by her temptations!

He would send that demon _screaming_ back to Hell when he was done with her.

Esmeralda took another step back, as if sensing the subtle shift in his behavior. "I'm not going with you," she said, as if she could predict him. "I am not yours and I never will be!"

"You already have." He tucked his handkerchief away. "But it's amusing how you think I'm going to ask for such things." He smiled, ignoring the pain in his lip and yet the fear that passed across her face was worth it. "Guards!" he shouted, watching her jump at his voice.

Immediately the door slammed open and two soldiers entered. "Sir!" they said, hands on their swords as they looked around, perhaps expecting to find a scene of disaster awaiting for them.

"Take her to the dungeons," Frollo ordered, his smile never faltering even as Esmeralda's broke into pure fear.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, looking to him for answers. She tried to step back again but the men had already caught her by the arms and were dragging her to the door. "Stop it! Let go of me!"

He never spoke a word, simply watching as she was dragged away, her yells to him, her pleas of mercy, falling upon his deaf ears. Her voice echoed to him down the hall, still calling for him, crying for him.

For him.

He hummed a little as he went back to retrieve his hat and place it upon his head, and he touched his wound once more. It burned and a small shiver of unease prickled his gut. It was a good thing he didn't let her get too much of his blood, who knew what that witch would do once she had some.

Shaking his head, Frollo hurried out of the room, his steps following the route his guards took, moving swiftly to catch up with them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gave Frollo a fourth ring in this story, a seal ring which he by all logic would have, especially for the time period. I also tried to find out what exactly he would be, and a provost, specifically Lord Provost of Paris, was the position that fit him the best. Medieval France is honestly a huge, confusing mess with its administration and I'm surprised they ever got anything done.


	6. Submission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"You shall break them with a rod of iron. You shall shatter them like earthenware."_ —Psalm 2:9
> 
> Warning: torture (whipping, stretching on the rack), mentions of denailing, sexual acts.

Even if Frollo had no idea how to get to the dungeons, he could have easily found his way by following the noise Esmeralda was making. She was still yelling at him, for him, even though he was far enough behind them that he couldn't be seen. It was as if she simply sensed his presence shadowing her as they went down the halls, down the stairs, and down, down.

The air changed within the stone stairwells as they plunged deeper into the bowels of the Palace of Justice. It was warmer, definitely, bearing an eternal heat that the torches in their brackets simply added to, and heavier. The weight only came from water and Frollo could feel the dampness in the air every time he inhaled, sticking to his throat and lungs and bringing the myriad of smells with it.

Rust, smoke, mildew, the scent of unwashed bodies, _blood._ Fresh and old, it was an inescapable part of the dungeons that seemed soaked into the very stones and mortar. It clung to the mouth, bringing the taste of iron with it.

Frollo had long gotten used to the scent by now. But Esmeralda...her sudden silence was more telling than anything she could have ever spoken.

But of course she could have never stayed silent for long. He heard her start up again just before he came to the landing, followed by a heavy door opening. He had just enough time to see a flash of white flicker in one of the doorways and then she was gone again, taken into an empty room. Frollo's smile never left his face, even when he heard her voice rising in panic, all to an oblivious, uncaring world around her. The only responses she would hear, if she could hear them, would be the moans of fellow prisoners in their own cells.  
  
A figure all but materializing out of one of the shadowy alcoves gave the minister pause. His dark clothes and hood hid most of his features, but Frollo recognized him after a glance. "Jaquet," he said with a dip of his head.  
  
The man saluted him with a grin, showing off a few blackened teeth as a result. "My Lord," he said with a glint in his eye. "That's a very pretty one you brought down just now, sir. It'll be a shame to ruin it all." Despite his words, Jaquet didn't sound very upset at the idea. On the contrary his breathing seemed to be coming faster and he was gripping the whip in his other hand far too tightly.  
  
Frollo's eyes narrowed at him until the man was squirming under his gaze and trying his best not to look away. "Quite," Frollo finally said, the simple snap of the syllables against his teeth clacking like the jaws of a wolf. Jaquet flinched. "Your services will not be required for her, Jaquet. I shall attend to her myself."  
  
The unrestrained shock spread across Jaquet's face, so obvious and rude that Frollo found himself gritting his teeth ever so slightly to keep his temper in check. Well what did he expect from such low people as a man who would take a position as a torturer? Of course it was a nasty, necessary business that someone had to do, but in all his years Frollo had never once met a torturer who hated his job. "Yourself, sir?" Jaquet repeatedly dumbly before realizing his mistake and composing himself. "Yes, of course, my Lord! Anything you want!"  
  
"Your whip, Jaquet." He held out his hand, palm up, eyes never leaving Jaquet's.  
  
For a moment Jaquet stared incredulously, but again he caught himself and stretched out his other hand to give the instrument to Frollo. It was a warm, smooth leather that could only come from years of handling and caressed his skin like silk. Frollo nodded and gave it a perfunctory glance, noting that the knotted cords were free of blood (fresh anyway) and untangled, hanging in neat, straight lines. It had not been used today, then.   
  
He held the whip in both hands and looked back up. "Leave us," he ordered. "And tell the guards they are not to disturb me unless I call for them. If all goes well I will not be needing any of you."   
  
"I—Sir? I mean, yes sir." Jaquet gave a deep bow, but it did not hide the expression of utter confusion that Frollo glimpsed upon his face. "I shall make the preparations immediately, my Lord."

"Then go," Frollo answered, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. He did not look to see what Jaquet did next and merely brushed by him, heading down the hall to the door that he saw Esmeralda dragged into. All the cells here had thick, heavy wooden doors that were designed to keep the noise inside like how a cork kept wine in the barrel. The only connection to the outside world were little doors that could be opened to slide the prisoners food and water, and that was it.

She would be his, and his alone. No one to bother them or interfere. After that little stunt she pulled, he would _enjoy_ this.

The guards were now stationed outside her door and they saluted him as he approached. He nodded, but he was in no mood to have them, or anyone, hovering nearby while he worked. "Wait by the stairs," he said. "If I need you I will call you."

They bowed, the same as Jaquet, and obeyed. When their clanking steps had retreated almost halfway down the hall Frollo opened the door. He paused in the archway, his attention arrested by what the light spilling into the room had revealed. A rack, the centerpiece of the chamber, and tied to it was Esmeralda.

Her arms were stretched high above her head, her legs pulled straight and rigid by the chains. One could almost imagine she was caught frozen in the middle of one of her dances, where her body pointed as straight as a spear but was far, far more flexible. Even from her position, bound, exposed upon the rack which left nothing to hide and everything to shame, she still glared at him. Frollo saw the fear there most definitely, but it was gone quickly when she realized who was staring at her.

"You?" she asked, her voice laced with sarcasm and disbelief. "You must be joking."

Frollo ignored her jibes, but the spell was broken and he could move again. He stepped inside the room and shut the door behind him with a heavy, resounding thud. Now that it was closed, darkness descended in the room. The space was only lit by a few candles and the coals in the brazier, barely enough to chase away the shadows, and most of the room remained in a perpetual gloom because of it. Frollo moved forward, letting his eyes adjust to the dark as he made his way over to a table that rested against one of the walls.

"This is your plan? You can't handle rejection so you take it all out on me?" Her voice was harsh, mocking, but underneath all the bravado it quivered. She probably hated that, knowing her. "You know who does that? A _child._ A spoiled child throwing a tantrum because he didn't get what he wanted!"

He supposed that she was trying to rile him up, to make him angry and prove in some petty way that she was correct about him and inhabiting some sort of moral high ground because of it. Did she think such ridiculous insults were enough to provoke him? It did not matter what she said, she was still the one tied to the rack, not he, and whatever she had to say would soon be reduced to the meaningless babble that it truly was. The rack always brought people crashing down, no matter how high they were flying before.

There were various instruments strewn neatly across the table, and Frollo pretended to examine them with care. A large pair of forceps caught his attention and he reached over to pick them up, testing the weight in his hands and clicking them a few times. They would easily tear out nails, but for now he didn't want to disfigure her. There was no reason to. Torture was as much of an act and it was true action, both the mind and the body needed to suffer for it to have any effect.

He turned it a little in the light, as if to examine it further, knowing that Esmeralda could easily see him from her current position.

The pause in her words was noticeable. "And what was the point of saving me anyway if you were just going to bring me down here? What was all the nonsense about redemption, then? I always knew you were a liar but why the whole ruse?" She still growled and from what he could hear she was struggling against the restraints. Unsettled, then.

Frollo set the forceps down, making sure they made a loud clank. His eyes darted around, looking and looking, until they landed upon a wicked pair of thumbscrews. He scooped them up and tested their weight in his palm. Pure, heavy iron that seemed all the more menacing with how much they dragged at his hand. Ah, but maybe she did not know what these were? He held one up and wiggled his thumb into the crevice, as if to test its size.

"Do you know how long it takes for nails to grow back after they have been ripped out?" he finally broke the silence, his voice soft and calm as he held out his thumb for her to see. He did not turn around but held his hand in its position.

There was a handful of long, thick seconds of silence. He longed to turn around and see her face, to read the expressions painted across it, but he restrained himself. He would not look at her just yet, he would not let her see him.

When she spoke again, her voice was much softer. "What's the point of all this? You should have just tortured me earlier."

"Usually, around eight to nine months." He answered his question for her, ignoring whatever she had to say. "These, however, do more than that. Your nail would crack from the pressure and fall out later. A few more turns of the screw and your bone would break afterwards. But that would heal much more quickly." He removed the thumbscrew and set it back down. "It doesn't take that much, and these are so very easy to turn."

_"Frollo."_

A thrill passed through his body, licking down his spine and shooting to the tips of his fingers and toes. She said his name! She said it so... He shivered slightly, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. He wanted her to always whisper it like that, no one could ever affect him so deeply just with his _own name._

Finally, he turned around. He didn't even need to search for her eyes, he locked upon them instantly. It must have been uncomfortable to Esmeralda to crane her head like that to look at his face, but it did not deter her. Her eyes were huge, staring at him with outright fear, but now that he was looking at her she scowled and tried to hide it. Honestly, Frollo admired her spirit. He had seen grown, older men break down long before this.

Of course, she could never make it last. Esmeralda could never keep her mouth shut. "You're _sick._ A sick, twisted man with no soul."

The words were a slap to the face and jolted him out of his reverie. He felt a snarl coming across his face, anger blazing to life in him, his fire burning through the water she tried to throw upon him. To question his immortal soul! "Be silent," he said, his voice far too calm and collected for his anger.

What would have sent Quasimodo into the most placating of bows flew completely over Esmeralda's head. Of course it did, she was so unobservant sometimes. "Oh, touched a nerve, didn't I? You know that too, you _know_ how cruel you are and how God will punish you—"

His hand lashed out, the tails of the whip flying through the air before landing across her stomach and thighs with a loud crack. The rest of Esmeralda's words were drowned out by her scream and she twisted in her restraints as if to escape from the pain. He didn't let her recover, though, there was no escape. Again he let the whip fly, again, and again, striking her flesh unrepentantly and listening to her renewed screams each time.

Five, six, she writhed and clenched her teeth, trying to hold back her cries against the whip. But Frollo knew better. No one could stay silent forever.

Seven, and her lips parted to scream again, and Frollo stopped. He could see red welts already forming along her skin, her chemise would have taken some of the blow away but it was only a thin fabric, at best it would stop her from bleeding. It had to feel like fire along her skin, inescapable fire that could only be dulled but never numbed. He came forward and Esmeralda's eyes fluttered open at the sound of his footsteps, gazing up at him angrily. "You shall speak no more, witch," Frollo snapped at her before she could say anything. "I will no longer hear your treacherous, deceitful words which Satan puts into your mouth."

Her chest heaved, struggling for breath and fighting to regain control of herself. "Y-you mean you jus-just don't want to hear the truth!" she spat, her teeth snarling at him like an animal.

He felt his anger growing, bubbling under his lips and filling his face with a heat that had nothing to do with the stifling air of the dungeon. His hand reached out and grabbed the lever of the rack, gripping it so hard that his knuckles turned white. "This can tear the limbs from your body, gypsy," he said in a low voice. "Now be quiet."

Esmeralda's eyes darted to his hand, uncertain, and back to his face. Their gaze hardened, driven by some deeper determination that he had not touched yet. "You're pathetic."

The words hung in the air between them and he watched Esmeralda tense, waiting for some immediate punishment, and that more than anything was what stalled him. When no pain was forthcoming, her gaze found his face again, confusion loosening her muscles and opening her expression. And Frollo _smiled_ at her.

Too late she realized her mistake. He wouldn't give her enough time to recover, and in that instant he shoved on the lever, its clicking nearly drowned out by the shrieks of the gypsy as the rack stretched and pulled her arms and legs farther and farther. She tried to curl up, to fight it, but it was useless and he only stopped when she was stretched as taunt as a bowstring across the wooden frame, barely able to even twitch held in her position as she was. Tears streamed down her face as she fought it, harsh, sobbing gasps tearing out of her throat as she tried, and failed to get a hold of the pain.

Frollo leaned over her, inspecting his work. It would take only a few more clicks of the lever for the dislocation to begin. Being in his position for decades, one simply gained an instinct for such things. He reached out and grazed his knuckles tenderly against her cheek, wiping away a tear as he did. She jerked her face away, more sobs coming from her throat at the contact. Frollo let her and simply moved his hand to her hair, running his fingers through it once more, letting it slide between them and tease his skin. He leaned down, placing his lips right against her ear and admiring the sensation for a moment before whispering: "Do you denounce Satan, witch?"

She jerked a little. "W-what?" she gasped.

In a moment he was gone, leaping to his feet and raising the whip again. The thongs cracked along her skin again and he relished in her new scream, all the louder as the whip hit right over the old marks. Esmeralda thrashed, at least tried to as best as she could, but her restraints barely let her move and Frollo was relentless as he lashed the whip. "I said, do you denounce Satan?!" he said, raising his voice over the whip and Esmeralda's screaming.

"Why, why?! I didn't do anything! I'm not a witch!" She was crying to him, each slap of leather against her skin producing another small scream that had her trying to run and hide.

Oh, wrong answer. A very wrong answer indeed, even if delivered under such pain. He would have to persuade her more then. After all, demons could stand pain no more than the humans whose bodies they were inhabiting. "Do not _lie_ to me! I know what you are!" Another crack across her as he spoke. "Denounce your master, Satan, and be redeemed in God's eyes!"

She was screaming loud enough to hurt his ears as her echoes bounced around the room, but through them he could hear her words. "I do! I denounce him, I denounce him! Stop, please!!"

And stop he did. Frollo waited and listened to her sob, her body sagging against the ropes by centimeters. Stretched like a rag now, wrung out and beginning to fray. He came forward, watching her. She was trembling. Her body shook with the force of her crying, her face turned against her arm to hide her tears. Was this truly a demon who lay in front of him now? By denouncing Satan did the demon flee and leave her alone with her pain? She looked so vulnerable now, nothing like the witch who put a spell on him and tried to make his soul dance to her music.

Now that he thought about it, he didn't feel like it either. It felt as if he was in control now, not the other way around.

His hand reached out to trace her face, and this time she did not move. He bent down again and whispered into her ear, "You chose me, Esmeralda. A part of you, no matter how small that part is, is still a stronger voice than all of these defiant games." Drawn by her smell, by her gentle, sweet cries, he kissed her temple.

Esmeralda shivered and nodded slightly. "I-I did," she said through her gasps.

"You _want_ to be redeemed, Esmeralda, I know it. Some part of you knows that I am right and what I am saying rings true." Frollo's hand wandered, tracing the edges of her face, then down her neck, feeling how soft her skin was underneath his fingertips. God how she scorched him, but she did not _control_ him, he still burned but the fire was _his._

He couldn't stop himself, he turned her face to look at him and kissed her once more.

The wound on his lip blazed to life, causing his hands to curl a little against her, but he refused to stop. Then, to his surprise and infinite pleasure, her lips moved against his, kissing him back. Just like that all of his pain was forgotten, its memory buried under the onslaught of her lips alone. It was like plunging into a blizzard, except instead of the harsh cold bringing his senses to life it was a shock that anchored him in place. He pressed closer, suddenly aware of how her body was splayed out beneath him, a banquet upon the feast table, and his hand seemed to move of its own volition. It trailed lower, following the center, dipping between the valley of her breasts to reach her navel—

A moan came from his throat, deep and desperate and his hand paused, feeling Esmeralda quiver under him. And she pushed _back,_ arching into his hand with a moan of her own echoing in her throat, but then shied away as much as the restraints would allow her to go. He followed her every movement, tracing patterns into her skin through the chemise, his mind afire with the sensations it brought, so dark and previously hidden from his sight. She was all _his._

He broke away from her kiss, his head falling helplessly into the crook of her neck afterwards, burying himself into the net of her hair and skin. They wove around him, trapping him effortlessly in their embrace, binding the both of them together with chains that were insubstantial yet stronger than the hardest steel. He could still hear her gasping, feel her trembling against him, and his hand was drawn inevitably lower, to the hem of her gown and underneath.

Esmeralda gave a mighty gasp that nearly came at the same time as Frollo's. She tried to jerk away but she could not move, and yet Frollo found himself locked in place even though a part of him screamed at him to flee. She was so hot, so burning under her dress, he could never have imagined such a heat! Truly the gateway to hell was through women, and yet what a tempting, sweet gate it was! A helpless groan was torn from him and he pressed harder, exploring her desire under his gentle and quite suddenly hesitant fingers. So this is what such indulgences were like, then? This warmth, wetness, exquisite and smooth feeling was what he had given up when he had taken his vows?

His mouth was parched, his heart beating far too fast in his chest. Frightened by the depth of emotion and sensation that welled in him, that his body compelled him to mindlessly _obey,_ he took his hand away, reaching up instead to trace the curves of her body once more.

A noise of confusion reached him, laced through with pain, and that made him raise his head. Esmeralda turned to look at him, her expression a mixture of emotions so profound that he found himself staring in awe. Fear, sorrow, yet also a strange sort of innocence, a vulnerability that was dragged out of her by the pain, a pure openness that begged him for mercy. He knew the look well. Had she ever been caught by the guards, he wondered? Had she ever been beaten or assaulted in her whole life? How lucky she must have been to avoid the fate of so many other gypsies!

 _"Please..."_ her quavering voice reached him, unable to form anything else, it seemed.

Pain and suffering was the great tool that broke so many. And to one so inexperienced, the shattering was quick indeed. Too far and the damage would be too deep. He glanced at his hand as it trailed over the curve of her breast, the mere sensation sending fire skittering along his veins, and he could see in the dim light how his fingers glistened. Esmeralda shivered under him again, another noise breaking from her, and he made his decision.

He stood up straight, the effort taking more out of him than it should have a right to. His head swam and he steadied himself for a moment before reaching for the lever and releasing it, snapping the tension back to normal and letting Esmeralda's arms fall down in place. Her sob of utter relief was almost joyous to hear and he set about untying her, undoing the knots in the ropes holding her wrists, and then moving to her ankles. He had the keys for the manacles, being master of the palace, and they sprang open s if glad to be rid of her.

Esmeralda was too busy shaking to stand up, and the hissing noises of pain she made between her teeth when she moved also told of a different reason for her inactivity. She merely lay there and rubbed her wrists, the skin red and inflamed and even bleeding in some places, and Frollo took pity on her again.

She flinched as he put his arm under her legs and her chest, but when she realized what he was doing she held onto him as if afraid he was going to drop her. Frollo was by no means as athletic as some of his soldiers, but his thin frame belied the strength underneath and he picked her up easily and set her down on her feet. All of which proved fruitless as she nearly collapsed against him, hiding her face and sobbing into his shoulder, clinging to handfuls of his robes as if they could protect her from what she had just endured.

Frollo stumbled under her weight slightly, but when he recovered he smiled and drew her closer to him, holding her and running a gentle hand through her hair. "Hush now, gypsy," he whispered and fished around her his handkerchief. "It is all over now, you will be just fine." He tried to clean her face as best as he could, with her hiding it and all, and managed to at least somewhat succeed. "Here, dry your tears with this and let us go."

That, at last, seemed to have an effect on her. She pulled away from him slightly and took the handkerchief that he pushed into her hands, and looked up at him. "W-what do you mean?" she managed to say through her hitching breaths.

"Exactly what I said, gypsy. Now wipe your tears." He watched as she clumsily obeyed, trying her best to clean herself of the tears that were insistent upon refreshing themselves every time her face was cleared. "Come, let us take you to a bath. After that it will be most refreshing for you."

She looked stunned, as if unable to comprehend what he was saying. "A bath?" she said, her voice small.

He knew his sudden change in treatment would confuse her, and he tried not to smile wider at it. Let her be confused, perhaps she would learn better this way. "Try to listen to what I say, Esmeralda. I assume you know what a bath is?" He turned and pulled away from her for just a moment to open the door and call for the guard at the foot of the stairs. "You will go and—"

The judge turned back around in just enough time to see her wobble on her feet, and he dove to catch her as she fell. She sagged into his arms, a dead weight, although she still moved and mumbled something like a slurred apology. He tried to stand her up again and while he did succeed, he knew that without something to hold onto she would just fall again.

"Sir?" the bewildered voice of a guard asked him from the doorway.

He snapped his fingers. "Come here, you fool. Take her to the servants and tell them to give her a bath." He handed her over to the guard, glaring as the man tried to awkwardly pick her up without making her chemise flutter and show anything too revealing. "They will wash her _thoroughly,_ you understand? And treat her pain." Now that he thought about it for more than a second, she was probably filthy. She hadn't had a bath after she came here, after all. "Burn that rag she is wearing and find her a new one. And the servants will bring her back to her room when they are done. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

The guard nodded swiftly, if looking a little overwhelmed by the flurry of commands Frollo had given him. "Yes sir, right away Minister." He performed a small bow, as much of one as he could do with the weight in his arms, and carried Esmeralda out of the room.

Frollo listened to his steps fade away, then he lifted his hand to examine it again. He still smelled like her, except it was a hundred times more potent than before. Slowly, pulled by a force deep in his gut, he touched his lips. A shudder wracked his frame and he could taste her on his tongue, the most careful of sips he could take from such a chalice, placing his trembling, unsure mouth against the wine and letting it invade his entire being with but a single drop.

He took a step back and shook his head, and then belatedly followed the path of his guard. He needed to be out of this place, where the air was fresh and clear...and where Esmeralda was.


End file.
